


I Do (I Really Don't)

by theonsfavouritetoy



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (pining away and in denial about it), Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Childhood Trauma, Fake Marriage, Hate to Love, Jon is an impossible brat, Living Together, M/M, Marriage for green card, Theon is Theon, WSL - Westeros Sign Language, cruel misappropriation of Lucky Charms, only here it's called a Gold Card, past dark secrets
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-16 17:16:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 28,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28960083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theonsfavouritetoy/pseuds/theonsfavouritetoy
Summary: Jon hates Theon.Hateshim. Loathes him. Wants to gruesomely murder him, on good days. And yet he still agrees to help him out when Theon needs to marry a Northerner to be able to stay in the North and avoid going back home, where a dark secret is waiting to catch up with him.
Relationships: Theon Greyjoy/Jon Snow
Comments: 234
Kudos: 119





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello dear people! 
> 
> Welcome to my new work, I'm happy to see you! So, what do we have here? The tags pretty much tell everything, Jon is behaving impossibly and Theon is pining away (yes, it's actually this way round 😬)
> 
> I have a little more than half of this already written and it's going pretty well right now. Going for the usual 1 chapter a week posting schedule. The story has flashbacks, they're marked with _Then_ I hope it's not confusing! 
> 
> Attention: This may seem like mostly fun, but there's some dark stuff to uncover in Theon's past. Appropriate warnings will be in my author's notes! 
> 
> Just a few infos: Legal age to marry here is 21, but you're considered an adult at 18. That's why Sansa can't help Theon here. Jon is 24, Theon is 26.

_Now (Jon)_

Jon hadn’t thought about his wedding day too often. Sure, he had pictured being _married_ someday. How he’d have a house and a dog, a wonderful wife and one or two kids. A family of his own. But the ceremony itself Jon hadn’t given much thought. Maybe during the time he’d been with Ygritte he had pondered it a couple of times. He’d wait for her at the altar and she’d come to him, beautiful in her white dress and their friends and families there to celebrate with them. But the thing with Ygritte hadn’t lasted and Jon had been sure his wedding day was still far away in the future. Which just proves Jon’s tendency to be spectacularly, furiously wrong. 

In reality it’s him walking down the aisle, flanked by his cousins. Arya’s hand on his right side feels comforting, patting his upper arm consolingly every few moments, while Sansa’s grip on his left arm is tight, as if she’s expecting him to bail at any moment. She needn’t worry, Jon thinks dizzily. He’s in too much of a daze to go anywhere but forward, towards the altar and the two men waiting for him. Jon’s eyes flit to Robb, the other groom’s best man, dashing in his dark blue suit. He gives Jon an encouraging smile, a nice try, but completely lost on Jon in this moment. 

He refuses to look at the second man, refuses to meet his gaze as he comes to stand beside him. Jon stares at his folded hands, trembling before him. He hardly hears the septon start his sermon, and it takes Arya poking him in the back to prompt Jon to speak his lines together with the other groom. _Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger. I am his, and he is mine. From this day until the end of my days._ It’s a compromise, neither of them believe in the Seven. Maybe Jon doesn’t believe in any gods at all. 

A cool hand touches his and Jon flinches, swallowing dryly as a plain silver ring is slipped onto his finger, burning his skin. An embroidered cloth is wrapped around their joined hands, trapping him. _With this kiss, I pledge my love._ Jon closes his eyes as a pair of lips fleetingly brush his mouth, as the cool hand lets go of his and someone touches his shoulder to turn him around. 

“There are cameras, Jon. Smile!”

At Robb’s whispered words Jon’s eyes fly open, staring unseeingly at the people gathering to congratulate him and his… his… He shivers. His childhood bully. Who ruined everything. The one person he hates more than anything. 

“It’s our wedding, Snow, not your fucking funeral. For fuck’s sake, can you just pretend you’re happy for once in your miserable life?”

Jon turns to look blankly at his husband.

“Don’t think I’m having any more fun than you.” Greyjoy sighs, stroking back a lock of hair from his forehead. “Ready for the party?”

No, Jon thinks. Definitely not. 

***

_Then, Three weeks earlier (Jon)_

“You cannot be serious.” Jon stares at his cousins in disbelief, at Robb, blue eyes pleading and unfortunately very serious; and at Sansa, hands neatly folded in her lap, her equally blue eyes earnest and expectant. Jon swallows, shaking his head. “No. Absolutely not, no way. Not even if you paid me for it.”

“He offers,” Sansa says dryly. “To pay you. Quite a lot, actually.”

Jon scoffs. 

“He’s not rich enough for _that._ Nothing, no amount of money or begging is going to make me marry Theon fucking Greyjoy. Forget it.” He pauses. “Why even ask me? Everyone knows we can’t stand each other. We’d bloody kill each other in moments!”

“Come off it, you old drama queen.” Sansa rolls her eyes. “I’d help him in a minute–”

“Then why don’t you?”

“–but I’m still not twenty-one for another eight months. It’s illegal. And Robb,” Sansa nods at her brother, “would do it if bigamy wasn’t illegal as well.”

“What about one of his chicks? Kyra, the girl from the shop, the one from the beach club, Bess…” Jon goes quiet when he notices Robb’s gaze. And the pity in it. 

“Are you still hung up on–”

“What about Ros,” Jon quickly interjects. That’s no topic he feels like deepening. “Ros would be delighted to help him out, I’m sure.” 

“Haven’t you heard?” Robb frowns. “She’s managed to bag a job down in the capital. Got a Gold Card and everything.”

“Well, tough. Then maybe he’ll just have to pack up and fuck off to where he came from. What’s so bad about going back anyway?” Jon looks at his cousins defiantly. “Didn’t he always go on and on how cool and superior everything is on those islands? And now he wants to stay here so badly all of a sudden.” He shrugs. “I’m not doing it.”

“Theon has a very good reason for not wanting to go back,” Sansa says fiercely. “Many reasons, to be exact.”

“And what,” Jon sighs, “are those?”

“That’s not my story to tell.”

“Hey, don’t look at me,” Robb says, raising his hands when Jon glares at him. “I don’t know much myself. But, Jon…” He bites his lip, seemingly debating with himself whether to go on. “He was crying when I found him with the rejection letter.”

This catches Jon cold. He stares at Robb, unable to believe his ears. Greyjoy? Crying? Those two words are mutually exclusive. _Jon_ cries. A lot. On sad occasions. Or heartwarming occasions. Or at that one anti-dust TV commercial where the dust is forced to leave his home because of the new magic broom. And sometimes just because of nothing. But Greyjoy?

“He – really?” Jon asks, swallowing against a sudden lump in his throat. “He never–”

“One time, before,” Robb says. “After the – nevermind. But you’re right. It must be really, _really_ bad if he has to go back.”

“It is,” Sansa adds quietly. “You’re his only hope, Jon.”

“Oh, who’s being dramatic now? How…” Jon takes a deep breath, dread settling in his gut. “When is the latest possible date…”

“Twenty days,” Robb and Sansa say in unison. 

_Fuck_. 

***

_Now (Jon)_

On his wedding night Jon goes to bed alone. Mechanically, he unbuttons his fancy white dress shirt, carelessly letting it sink to the floor in a crumpled heap, followed by the trousers, his underwear and his socks. Normally he’d shower before bed, but tonight all energy has left him. Naked, he crawls under his duvet, clutching it to his chest with all his might. 

It shouldn’t happen this way. On his wedding night he should be tipsy, giddy, full of excitement. Should’ve carried his bride over the threshold and directly into the bedroom, should’ve helped her out of her dress. It should have been the most romantic night of his life. Instead he’s alone, his arms around a duvet instead of a wife he loves, trying to calm his racing thoughts and suppress the tears stinging in his eyes. 

A clang comes from the living room where Jon has dumped a blanket and a spare pillow on the couch for Greyjoy. Jon stifles a sob, losing the battle. He presses his face into the pillow, feels it getting wet under his cheek. He’s not alone. But he hasn’t ever felt this lonely in his whole life. And with this depressing thought, Jon falls asleep, and dreams. 

***

_Then, Eight years earlier (Jon)_

“What the fuck are you doing out here, Snow?”

“Leave me alone.”

Jon doesn’t look up at the familiar voice. That’s really not what he needs tonight, to be made fun of. But to his surprise Theon doesn’t leave him alone, nor does he utter a silly joke. He just sits down on the steps leading from the patio into the garden, bumping Jon’s shoulder with his. 

“Seriously, man. Won’t you come in? It’s my last chance to make fun of you, you know.”

Jon scoffs. That sounds just like something that’ll persuade him. But it’s true enough. Tonight is Theon’s farewell party, before he moves out and into his own apartment. Jon’s not sure how he feels about that. Well, without Theon he’ll finally have Robb all to himself. And no more jokes about his height or his place in the family. But it also means no more hilarious stories Jon pretends he doesn’t listen to, no more action-packed Tekken tournaments, no more hearing Theon whistling his stupid little songs when he’s clattering around the house.

“So. Want to tell me why you hide out here moping like an emo instead of getting pissed and snogging a pretty girl?”

Jon turns to glare at Theon, starting when he finds his face very near. “I can’t get pissed. I’m sixteen.”

“Robb’s sixteen too.” Greyjoy shrugs. “And if I don’t go and snatch the spiked punch away from him he’ll be comatose soon.”

“Where’s Catelyn?” Jon frowns. She’d never let her underage son get pissed. 

“Passed out in Sansa’s room.” Theon laughs. “Poor woman, I think the Pushkin I put into her iced tea was too much for her. I do think she knew though – and drank it anyway. Not that I blame her, today’s an occasion to celebrate. Getting rid of the bad influence for good and all that.”

“You’re not–” Jon pauses as the patio door flies open and Arya races past, screeching loudly, Lyanna Mormont at her heels. “Okay, yes, you are. Robb is pissed, Cat turns into a secret alcoholic and Arya and her friend are definitely not in bed.”

“And Sansa is glued to Loras Tyrell’s side,” Theon concludes, laughing again at Jon’s horrified face. “Don’t worry, man. She’s as safe as can be with him. Not his type.”

“Not into younger girls then, is he,” Jon mutters, not convinced. “But she looks older than thirteen and he’s had some drinks too.”

“Not into younger girls, no. Or girls of any age.” Theon smirks when Jon shoots him a confused look. “Really, Snow, are you blind? The one he’s been looking at all night is definitely not Sansa.”

Oh. _Oh._ “Robb?” Jon guesses.

“No, you idiot. You. Well, you and Renly Baratheon, to be honest.” Theon shoulder-bumps him again. “Loras and his sister both. Isn’t she around your age? Why don’t you go and fool around with her a little, be daring for once.”

His smirk changes, becomes less mocking.

“And smile. You’re too pretty to go around looking like a thundercloud.”

***

_Now (Theon)_

In the living room, on a lumpy, uncomfortable couch, Theon Greyjoy curses. He curses the itchy blanket covering him, himself, his bad luck, his newlywed husband, himself, his fucked-up family, the new president of Westeros and his new laws… himself. Most of all he curses himself. His brain. It’s been eight years, the memories should have vanished – or at the very least faded – a fucking long time ago. 

And yet he can still recall it all perfectly, how those lips had felt under his, the scent of mint and strawberries clinging to soft hair, the heat, the sounds – and the eyes. Dark and shocked, yearning and with a fire inside them that seemed to burn him alive. Later they had seldom looked at him, and when they did...still full of fire, but a different kind, a cold fire. Hatred. Disgust. And then… nothing. All the fire gone, wiped out. Nothing but icy contempt and disinterest. Even the hate had been preferable to this. Since then he’d never looked at dark eyes the same. A bright blue is beautiful, or grey, or green. 

A muffled sound coming from Snow’s bedroom brings Theon back to the here and now, back to the horrible situation he’s in. He curses some more when, unbidden, Snow’s eyes appear before his mind, how they looked right through him at the ceremony. Dull and empty, not green or blue or grey. Brown. Boring. No fire, not the tiniest hint. With a last, muttered curse Theon turns onto his side. Boring is at least better than going back. Boring is good. Boring is safe. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woohoo, it's Sunday evening (at least here it is) and therefore new chapter time! 
> 
> Thank you all so much for your interest in this, for your comments and kudos and excitement. I wrote 3 more chapters this week and added some stuff in between (Lucky-Charms-related stuff 😏) and I may have to change the rating to E... 🤔🤔 If the motivation continues like that, I might be able to switch to posting twice a week (which I would love tbh)
> 
> Anyway, for now here's the next chapter!

_Now (Jon)_

Jon’s life is comfortable. It’s a good life, nothing spectacular, but that’s how he wants it. His routine is always the same, day after day. He gets up, brushes his teeth, drinks a glass of juice and goes for a run. Then he comes back, showers, has breakfast with two eggs on toast and reads the morning papers while drinking a cup of tea strong enough to stand the spoon in before going to work. It’s not a very exciting work, just shelving and stuff at the local supermarket, but it pays the bills and he’s still able to put a bit of money away for a higher education. And it gives him time to ponder what it even is he wants to be educated in. 

The first morning of his new life starts uneventful. Jon wakes up with a vague feeling of dread, only remembering why when his gaze falls on his hand, and the ring sitting there. With a groan he drags himself into the bathroom. There are a lot of reminders there. Jon opens the mirrored cupboard above the sink, eyeing its content with disdain. Where before had been his toothbrush, toothpaste, a soap, deodorant, shaving kit and a face cream are now about a million bottles and jars, all looking ridiculously fancy and expensive. He takes one of them, some sort of hairstyling product, and sniffs suspiciously. Ugh. It smells just like _him._

He quickly puts it back, rolling his eyes at the seven different deo sticks crammed into one of the compartments and closes the mirrored door before he can do something naughty. Like spitting in the offending hair stuff. When he’s put on his running clothes Jon marches out into the living area, not even trying to be silent. The Greyjoy-shaped lump on the couch moves as Jon walks past, a tousled shock of hair appears and two bleary eyes squint at Jon as he pours himself a glass of orange juice. 

“Time’s it?” Greyjoy asks, clearing his throat audibly. 

Jon cringes. 

“Half past six,” he says. “I’m going for a run.”

“You’re a lunatic, you know that?” Greyjoy sits up, the blanket falling from his naked shoulders as he stretches, rotating his head to get out the kinks. “We both have the next two weeks off. You have the whole day for that.”

“I always go at this time,” Jon states while rinsing his glass in the kitchen sink. “And I don’t see why I should change my life any more than I have to.”

“Do what you want, Snow.” Greyjoy comes padding over, reaching over Jon’s shoulder for the fridge door. His naked chest brushes Jon, and he quickly steps out of his space. Greyjoy yawns. “When’s the hag due for the first time?”

“This afternoon.” 

The hag is Greyjoy’s charming nickname for the person the immigration office is sending to check on them. Jon can’t suppress a shudder thinking of her. On the phone, announcing her visit, she’d already sounded like an evil witch, determined to give them the hardest time possible. 

“What are we going to do?”

Jon rolls his eyes at Greyjoy’s question. He has the feeling he’s going to do that a lot in the next… he swallows. The next year. If everything goes well. If not...

“We’ll go through the question sheet Robb has printed for us when I’m back. We act all lovey-dovey. She leaves. We ignore each other as best we can until she comes back.”

“Sounds amazing,” Greyjoy drawls sarcastically before setting the juice carton to his lips and taking a hearty swig. 

“Have you been raised by wolves??” Jon snatches the juice out of Greyjoy’s paws, glaring at him. “I own glasses. _Use them._ ”

“Easy, Snow.” Greyjoy grins appealingly. Jon wants to smack him. “You’re going to give yourself a heart attack before breakfast. When’s breakfast by the way?”

“Whenever you get off your bloody arse and make yourself some.” Jon grits his teeth, forcing his voice to sound normal. Or at least less hostile. They’ll have to get along for a long time. “There’s food in the fridge. Toast over there in the box labelled _bread,_ surprisingly.”

“And when will you eat?”

“When I’m back. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

Jon steps out into the corridor, kneeling to tie his trainers. He needs the exercise. And he needs to get away, if only for an hour or two. 

“Running, eh?” Greyjoy has followed Jon and leans against the coat rack, watching him. “I used to run too before I joined the Sunspear gym. Maybe I’ll take it up again, now that I can’t afford that anymore.” He shrugs, peering down on Jon questioningly. “Would you mind if I came with you?”

“Yes.” Jon gets up, snatching his keys from their hook and stuffing them into his pocket. “Actually, I’d mind that a lot.”

And with that he slips out of the door and slams it shut. 

***

When he comes back he nearly gets a heart attack as he enters his narrow hallway. There, next to his trusted pair of chucks, stand now… Jon’s eyes nearly pop from his head as he counts them. Eleven pairs of shoes. Eleven different pairs of _trainers,_ one looking more ridiculously flashy than the next. And that’s not all. Three jackets and one coat have joined his solitary rain jacket – a coat! In summer! Jon’s own coat is in a clothes bag at the Starks’ attic, where it will remain until fall. One of the jackets looks horribly expensive, and Jon touches it suspiciously. A leather jacket. Who the actual fuck does Greyjoy think he is, a bloody rock star?

It only gets worse from there. The kitchen area looks more or less the same, but the living room part… Jon swallows in horror. There are pictures everywhere. As he steps closer Jon recognizes some of the pics. There’s one from the holiday he and Robb and Greyjoy had spent together on a boat Greyjoy had rented, Robb firmly planted between them, mostly to keep Jon from murdering Greyjoy. 

There’s a pic of Jon and Greyjoy from a fishing trip with Ned when they were kids. In it kid Jon looks like a drowned rat, having just crawled out of the pond Greyjoy had pushed him into. He’s laughing in the pic, and, to Jon’s resentment, so is he himself. He remembers complaining about the heat a lot that day. He remembers the push, remembers being utterly shocked at the freezing water, remembers Robb’s suppressed giggles and Uncle Ned rolling his eyes. He remembers Greyjoy holding out his hand, helping him out of the pond. _Still hot there, Snowbell?_ And Jon, despite himself, had laughed. He hates to admit it, but… sometimes it had been fun.

But the worst are the pictures of the wedding, of the ceremony, of the party… Greyjoy’s grinning like an idiot in every single one of them while Jon himself looks strangely vacant. The cutting of the cake, the ridiculous little games Jon’s friends made them play – the first dance as husband and husband. Jon doesn’t want to look at it, wants to purge the whole thing from his mind.

***

_Then, Yesterday (Jon)_

“I didn’t have a chance to – you wouldn’t – I wanted to thank you.” 

Jon makes a non-committal noise, trying to focus on moving his feet, to not think of Greyjoy’s hand on the small of his back, the other holding Jon’s hand in a loose grip. They’re not even dancing so much as swaying from side to side to the sound of Peter Gabriel. Jon had always loved the song, even has it on his playlist. Another thing ruined. He’ll never be able to hear it again without thinking of this, of Greyjoy’s smell in his nose, their bodies way too close together. 

“I know you didn’t do it for me,” Greyjoy continues. “But thank you all the same, Snowbell.” 

The old nickname runs through Jon’s veins like venom, makes him sick to his stomach. 

“Don’t ever call me that again,” he hisses, barely able to stay put. 

“Right. I’m sorry.” A heavy sigh. “A couple more hours and we’re done here. Think you can _not_ murder me until then?”

Then… what _then_? There’s no escaping this, nowhere to hide from him. They’ll be going home together. Home. The word seems like a farce now. It won’t be a home with _him_ there. Jon grimaces, looks over Greyjoy’s shoulder, his gaze falling on Sansa watching them. She has one of the disposable cameras in her hand, pointing it at them. Jon stares at her blankly until she lets the camera sink. _Please,_ she mouths, and Jon sighs before he nods curtly. 

“You’re right,” he mutters. “I’m not doing this for you.” 

It costs a whole fucking lot of self-conquest, but finally, reluctantly, he rests his head against Greyjoy, against his neck, his shoulder. For a moment Greyjoy stiffens, but then he relaxes again, pulls Jon closer. He’s a much better actor than Jon; anyone not knowing them very well would never guess this is nothing but a charade. He’s nosing at Jon’s hair, softly humming the tune of the song, and Jon grits his teeth, forcing himself not to flinch away with all his might. He closes his eyes, tries to go somewhere else in his head. The song seems to go on and on before, finally, it’s done and Jon moves back immediately, out of Greyjoy’s embrace. And for a moment it almost feels as if Greyjoy were reluctant to let him go. 

“I hope you took your picture,” Jon mutters to Sansa when he passes her. “I’m not going to do this again.”

***

_Now (Jon)_

“There you are. You’ve been gone for ages.” 

Jon swivels around, feeling caught, as Greyjoy steps out of the bathroom in a cloud of steam, a towel slung around his hips. Jon quickly looks away again. 

“Sansa has been over with the instant pics from the wedding and a few from Cat’s albums she thought we could use.” Greyjoy straightens one hanging on the wall next to the bathroom door. “And I unpacked some of my boxes. Not that many, this place is tiny, but now at least it looks like we’re both living here.”

Jon’s ears are ringing as Greyjoy swaggers to the couch and slumps down as if he already owns the place. A horrible feeling dawning on him, Jon marches over to his bedroom door, pushing it open. The bed is unmade, not resembling the neat oasis of sleep he’d left in the morning. There’s another pillow with a head indentation lying next to Jon’s, and on the previously empty bedside table is now a clutter of stuff. Jon slinks closer. A box of tissues, an old-fashioned alarm clock, a handful of loose change, a book with a bookmark peeking out of it – and a bottle of KY. 

“GREYJOY!!” Jon bellows, turning on his heel and storming out. “What the _fuck_ are you thinking putting LUBE on my – my–”

“Hello,” says a cool voice from the doorway, and Jon gapes at the woman suddenly having materialized there. “You must be Jon Snow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any questions? Any early theories? I'm always curious what you guys imagine will happen/has happened! Thank you very much for reading 💙💙💙
> 
> (If you're curious, the song they dance to is The Book of Love by Peter Gabriel)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello on Sunday evening! 
> 
> From tomorrow the museum I work at is opening again, which for me means I'm back at work full time and can stare at the wall for 8 hours instead of 4 because there still aren't any tourists, yay. 😞 Lots of time to write though, or at least lots of time to play out elaborate scenes in my head and then not writing them down 🙈
> 
> Anyway, here's the first Theon POV! Hope you enjoy his part of the story 🥰

_Now (Theon)_

She’s… not exactly what Theon had pictured. Not hag-like, at least. For one, she’s not old. Mid-forties if he has to guess, and very attractive. Long, blonde hair in a french braid, eyes a beautiful green – but the overall effect is ruined by her expression, a permanent-seeming sneer that makes her look rather bitchy. At the moment her mocking gaze is trained on Snow – who seems frozen to the spot. Theon sighs inwardly. Not a good start. He’ll have to take matters into his own hands it seems.

“Hello, ma’am,” he says, switching on the charm. She looks over at him, one eyebrow climbing up. Theon grins apologetically. “If you’ll give me a moment, I’ll go and get dressed and then we’ll be there for you. Babe,” he addresses Snow, who’s gaping at him in utter horror, “sorry about the lube, I forgot to put it away. Why don’t you offer our guest something to drink while I get decent?”

Snow looks as if he’s having a stroke, and slowly Theon starts to get really worried. They can’t afford to screw this, _he_ can’t. But then a jolt runs through Snow and he arranges his features into something resembling a smile. Theon cringes. It looks painful. He waits for Snow to nod before he heads into the bedroom, hearing him speak in his back. 

“Sorry, ma’am, we expected you a bit later. I just came home from my morning run. Anything to drink?”

Theon carefully pushes the door shut behind him, leaning against it and closing his eyes. His heart is beating too fast and he tries to calm it. Nothing lost yet. His foresightfulness to unpack his stuff early pays off, as does the little trick with the lube. The woman will think they’re just having a little domestic because of his slovenliness, and if Snow manages to get himself together they can pull this off. 

Theon takes a deep breath, turning over to Snow’s wardrobe. Luckily there had been lots of space for at least some of Theon’s clothes. Snow’s stuff is as boring as he is. There’s a couple pairs of black jeans, a few black jumpers, one suit – his wedding suit, complete with the shirt in a dress bag – and that’s it. Theon snorts as he selects a pair of grey slacks and goes to pick his favourite long-sleeved shirt, the red one, from one of the two drawers he’s occupied in Snow’s dresser. The others are full of plain black tees and heaps of black socks and black pants. 

Someone ought to go shopping for Snow, get some colours in his wardrobe, Theon thinks absentmindedly as he pulls on his shirt. It’s not the most elegant piece he possesses, but right now he wants something comforting, something he feels good in. Bare-footed he walks out again, just catching the end of Snow’s last sentence.

“...turned out to be just what I was looking for.”

Theon casually marches over to them, seating himself next to Snow on the couch. The woman is sitting opposite the couch on one of the kitchen chairs. Snow looks up at Theon, pulling his mouth into a jittery smile. 

“Hey, I just told Ms. Lannister how I found this flat.”

“Yes, fascinating,” Ms. Lannister says, looking as if she’s suppressing a yawn. Theon rolls his eyes inwardly. Everyone thinks Snow is boring. “Mr. Greyjoy,” she continues, and Theon leans forward, smiling. 

“Theon, please,” he says engagingly.

“Theon,” she repeats, without offering her first name as well. “I have the information here in my files that you rent quite a large flat yourself. Wouldn’t it have made more sense to move there instead of this tiny place?”

Theon can feel Snow bristling at his side, so he lays a comforting hand on his thigh. Snow jolts. 

“I did rent a bigger place, true,” Theon says. “But after a disagreement with my family back on the Iron Islands my funds were capped, and while we both have jobs it’s not enough for the big place _and_ a comfortable lifestyle. Besides, I think it’s cosy here.”

“A disagreement?” Ms. Lannister chases up Theon’s words. “What was that about?”

“My refusal to return to the islands,” Theon explains. “They thought I’d’ve come home by now. But the North is my home now. _This_ is.” 

He squeezes Snow’s thigh, making him jump again. Fuck, he’s way too stiff. Theon has to get him to relax, get him to put on the act. 

“Stop being embarrassed, babe,” he says, slinging his arm around Snow’s shoulders and hugging him close. “The lady is only doing her job, she won’t bite us.”

Ms. Lannister’s lips curl. 

“Why don’t you go take a shower, hm?” Theon asks Snow. “I bet you feel more comfortable then.”

“A good idea,” Ms. Lannister interjects. “And take your time, Mr. Snow. I’ll ask your _husband_ some of the questions you so kindly answered already.”

Snow turns to Theon, eyes panicked. “Th-Theon,” he stammers, as if the word is causing him pain. 

Theon smiles reassuringly, trying not to feel panicked himself. They haven’t gone through the questionnaire yet. This can go horribly wrong. 

“Yeah, take your time, babe,” he says, and then he decides to go in for the kill. With a quick move he snatches Snow’s damp tee and pulls him in, kissing him full on his mouth. Snow goes rigid, but before he can start screaming abuse Theon whispers in his ear. “Relax, Snow, I’ll just wing it, okay?” He releases him. “Off you go, babe.”

Snow, blushing furiously, nods and stumbles away. When the bathroom door falls into the lock Theon smiles at Ms. Lannister. 

“Sorry about that. He’s always a little awkward around strangers. I would never have gotten him to marry me if we hadn’t known each other for such a long time.”

“Interesting.” Ms. Lannister sounds as if Theon’s explanation is anything but. She flips her file open. “You grew up in Mr. Snow’s uncle’s house, is that correct?”

“From when I was ten,” Theon replies, relaxing a little. 

The first questions are easy, about them growing up together, how they fell in love – thank fuck they have at least agreed on that story – and such stuff. Theon answers everything confidently, relaxing even more. Too soon, as it turns out. 

“Now onto some more personal questions,” Ms. Lannister says, smiling nastily, and Theon’s heart starts beating faster. “What would you say are your _husband’s_ favourite sweets?”

Oh. _Shit_. Theon swallows. If Snow has changed a lot in the past years this will go down the drain. But he has to try. 

“He’s not that keen on sweets,” Theon says cautiously. “I’m the sweet tooth. He’d rather have peanuts or crisps than anything chocolaty.” Ms. Lannister’s smile turns even nastier as she starts scribbling away on her notepad. Theon feels a droplet of sweat run down his spine. “But he likes gummy bears. He can eat a whole bag of them when we watch a movie. Except… he hates the yellow ones.”

The pen stops and Ms. Lannister huffs. “And what are his favourite movies?”

“Martial arts stuff,” Theon says with a smile. They’d fought about that a lot, and after the _thing_ had happened it had turned into outright war. Jon had always loved those movies, while Theon had been bored to death. In the end Robb had picked most of the movies they’d watched, on the rare occasions when it had been the three of them. “You know, Snake in the Eagle’s Shadow, or the early Bruce Lee films, that kind of shite.”

Ms. Lannister peers at her notes, huffing again. “What clothes does Mr. Snow sleep in?” 

“No clothes,” Theon says firmly. There had been nothing resembling a pj anywhere near Snow’s bed or the laundry basket. “He sleeps naked.”

“Mhm.” Ms. Lannister starts to sound annoyed, which Theon takes as a good sign. “Which shampoo does he use?”

The smile slides off Theon’s face. He wants to kick himself for not having checked when he’d had a shower earlier, and the only thing Snow had smelled of just now had been fresh sweat and… well. Snow. He tries to recall the wedding, their dance, but all he remembers is some fancy cologne, no hint of shampoo. This must’ve changed. It can’t be the same after all these years. But it’s his only guess. He tries not to think of it, but as soon as the words form in his mouth he can smell it, as if he still had his nose buried in the soft curls.

“Mint and strawberries.”

***

_Then, Eight years earlier (Theon)_

Theon lets his gaze sweep over the assembled people. The Starks’ living room is absolutely thronged, everyone he knows having turned up for his farewell party, and then some. He firmly tells himself he’s not looking for anyone in particular, not at all, just keeping an eye on everything. Robb is still hovering at the punch bowl, red-faced and grinning broadly as he tries to chat up Rhaenys. She doesn’t look disinterested at all, stroking Robb’s arm suggestively. Theon grins to himself, letting his gaze wander further. Sansa is still sitting next to Loras, who is way too polite to just leave, although he’s making eyes at the Baratheon guy the whole time. Poor Sans, she has no idea, and her so-called best friend doesn’t seem inclined to enlighten her. 

Especially not now, seeing as she’s trying to eat Jon alive at the very moment. Theon feels his smile waver a little, telling himself he’s an idiot. That’s what he told him to do, wasn’t it? Find a girl, snog a little, have some fun. Not that it looks as if Jon is actually having fun, he looks like a very bewildered deer in the headlights as the girl clings to him. _Stop it_ , Theon thinks angrily, firmly turning his back on the two of them. He has no idea what’s wrong with him tonight. It had already started earlier, the party in full swing, everybody laughing and having a good time, and still Theon couldn’t keep himself from scanning the crowd every couple minutes, not even knowing what he was looking for. 

_He’s outside,_ Robb had said in passing on his way to spike the punch, and Theon had gone after him. 

_I have no idea who you’re talking about,_ he’d said in his best aloof voice. 

_Suure._ Robb had grinned insolently. _Who are you trying to kid? You’re always looking for him._

And Theon had snatched the flask of rum out of Robb’s hands, had taken a huge gulp, had muttered under his breath for Robb to please fuck off, thank you very much, and it’s quite hot in here, he’s going to get some fresh air. Robb’s laughter had followed him outside. 

Robb is right, Theon has to admit when he allows himself to think about it. He’s always been way too aware of Jon, even when they were kids, taking every opportunity to tease him, rile him up, get a reaction. Get his attention. And this past year it had only gotten worse. Good thing he’s moving out, really. Away from a family that had never really been his, away from Catelyn’s – strangely hot – disapproval, away from Jon’s pouty face and soft-looking curls. Fleetingly, not for the first time, Theon wonders if they’re as soft as he imagines them to be, before he harshly calls himself to order. Thinking about Jon like that isn’t going to go anywhere. 

Jon is sixteen, bloody hell, two years younger than Theon. A fucking _child_. He’s just kissing – or rather, being kissed by – a girl for the first time, something Robb, the same age as Jon, had started with at fourteen years old. And he’s – well – he’s Jon. Going for Jon would probably be a very stupid idea. 

Unfortunately, Theon can’t help himself; he looks again. And now Jon seems more into it, kissing back, his eyes closed as far as Theon can see. _Fuck this._ He grabs a can of soda from the cooler, deliberately not looking in Jon’s direction as he marches outside, walking until he’s reached the lawn where he slumps down, staring into the dark. Only a few more hours, a last breakfast, and he’s on his own. His own boss. No one to tell him what to do, what not to do. With his father’s generous allowance he can rent a nice place, look for a job that isn’t completely appalling. He can take home as many people as he wants to, can choose from a bottomless pool of willing prey. A few more hours. 

Theon closes his eyes, making a promise to himself. No more misplaced attractions. Just good old fun. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo what do you think of Cersei? I haven't had her in a story yet, except for that one chapter where she banged Euron in the Vamp AU 😅 I have to say I'm having a lot of fun with her! 
> 
> What happened eight years ago is unfurling very slowly – any thoughts on that? The boys are both still haunted by it, only in very different ways...


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Helloooo it's finally Sunday again! Seriously, all week I'm so looking forward to sharing a new chapter with you ❤️❤️❤️ 
> 
> I'm writing a lot, but now that other AU (also known as Tighter only with plot lol) has decided to take center space along this one and right now it's going very well :D 
> 
> Theon POV again, and the poor boy can't catch a break. 
> 
> Warning for Balon being Balon (though he doesn't appear in person) and Greyjoy-typical treatment of little Theons
> 
> A little SPOILER about Theon's past is in the end notes!

_Now (Theon)_

“I can’ schleep on tha’ couch forever,” Theon declares, mouth full. He’s perching on the kitchen counter, wolfing down his second helping of breakfast and ignoring Snow’s disgusted glares. “I’ll have a bad back by the end of the month.”

“You won’t sleep on the couch forever,” Snow finally answers. “Only for a year.”

“No’ good enouf, Schnow,” Theon mutters around another mouthful.

“Could you _please_ swallow before you open your mouth?” Snow snaps, pushing away his plate without finishing his boring eggs on boring toast. “You’re spoiling my breakfast! What is that even what you’re maiming there?” he adds grumpily. 

“That?” Theon rattles the box next to him. “Only the best cereal in the world. Lucky Charms. I love those little marshmallows. Can’t survive without them.”

“Pure sugar,” Snow mutters into the napkin he’s wiping his mouth with. “You’ll give yourself diabetes if you continue to eat that trash.”

“Maybe. But what would life be without some risks?” Theon hops down onto the floor, putting his empty bowl and spoon into the sink. 

“Sensible,” Snow growls in his back. “It’d be _sensible._ I very much hope you’re going to clean that.”

“Sensible is just another word for boring.” But Theon decides not to push it. The last word isn’t spoken about his sleeping arrangements yet, and it can’t hurt to appease the old bore. “See?” he says, glancing over his shoulder as he turns on the tap. “I’m doing it, no need to nag.”

“You’re still not going to sleep in my bed.”

“It’s now _our_ bed, I’ll have you reminded. And _our_ kitchen and _our_ uncomfortable couch.” 

Theon grins at the frustrated sigh sounding behind him. It had been Robb’s idea to add Theon’s name to the rental contract for the flat. Adds credibility to the charade, he’d said. Snow had only agreed after Theon had offered to pay the full rent, but he _had_ agreed. 

“That doesn’t mean I’m going to let you have the bed. I’d rather you rupture a disc than I.” 

“Charming,” Theon mutters mostly to himself as he’s wiping his bowl. 

Snow’s open hostility is starting to get to him. Not that he doesn’t know he deserves it to some extent, but Snow takes it too far. He acts as if Theon has killed his loved ones or something. And the _thing_ had happened fucking years ago, not last week. Time to get over it, Theon thinks. Time for both of them to get over it, as it happens. But it isn’t easy, not with both of them having two weeks off in pretense of something akin to a honeymoon. Theon shakes his head, concentrates on the bowl he’s wiping. He needs to get out, away from Snow. 

***

_Then, Four weeks earlier (Theon)_

_“Dear Mr. Greyjoy, we regret to inform you that your application for a Gold Card to stay in the North has been rejected._

_You have thirty days to leave the county. Should you not follow these instructions, you will be taken into custody and deported back to your county of origin._

_You can no longer appeal against this government decision._

_Sincerely,_

_Barbrey Dustin_

_Head of Immigration”_

Theon lets the letter sink, the lines blurring before his eyes. He’d known it would happen, had known his desperate attempt would be rejected, too late, too little information on why he needs to stay in the North, why he can’t go back home. The reasons he’d given had been weak, friends, job, his little brother… not important enough, not valid enough. The letter falls from Theon’s shaking hands, coming to lie on the table before him. He could never give them the real reason, why he doesn’t want to go back, can’t bear to go back.

Asha’s last letter seems to be burning a hole in his jeans pocket. He carries it around like a horrifying token, like a reminder. He knows it by heart, has read the last few lines a hundred times. _Euron sends his greetings. He says he can’t wait to see his little nephew again, all grown up and ready._ Theon swallows against the panic rising in his throat, like acid on his tongue as he thinks of Asha’s postscriptum. _Don’t come back, Theon. For the love of God, stay where you are. Stay safe._

A drop falls onto the paper, leaving a wet circle. Theon doesn’t move. More drops follow, until the paper gets wavy, until he can barely see anything at all, until the words sealing his fate become unreadable. A desperate noise rises in the back of his throat and he can’t do anything to stop it, and with a low groan Theon lays his head in his hands. 

“Theon? There you are, I’ve been looking for you. Jeyne made lasagna, I’ve brought you some – _Theon?_ ”

He doesn’t move at hearing Robb’s anxious voice, just continues to sit there, unable to stop the shaking of his shoulders, and the tears streaming down his face. 

“Theon, gods…” Robb’s hand settles on his neck, warm and soothing. “What is it? Has something – seven hells, please tell me what happened!” 

Theon doesn’t trust his voice, so he silently shoves the soaked paper over to Robb, turning his face away from him. There’s a short silence while Robb reads the paper, then a heavy sigh. 

“Gods, I’m so sorry. This is so unfair – your whole life is here, and they expect you to just leave it behind.” Robb pulls up a chair, settling down next to Theon. “Hey, talk to me, man. I know it’s crap, but is it really so bad? I mean, you can always come visit… or we could visit you?”

“Fucking hell,” Theon grits out, nearly choking on his own words. “Neither you nor Sansa will ever set a single foot on those rotten islands if I can help it.” 

“What is it? I know there’s something you’re not telling me, Theon.” Robb clears his throat. “Maybe if you told me I could–” 

“No,” Theon interrupts harshly. “Sorry, Robb… there’s nothing you can do. I’ll have to go back and – and I’ll–” 

Another wave of tears drowns out the rest of the words, and suddenly it’s too hard to hold himself together and Theon sinks against Robb, leaning his head against his shoulder. Robb’s arms come up immediately, holding Theon while he cries over the past, and the future that’s stretching out in front of him, a future that contains nothing but horror and his uncle. It takes an eternity before it’s over, before the tears start to slow down and finally stop. 

“Listen, Theon,” Robb starts carefully. “I won’t pester you to tell me why you don’t want to go back, but… I think I know a way for you to stay.” 

Theon sits up at that, ashamed with the way his face must look, blotchy and tear-streaked. Robb is smiling encouragingly, as if he really has a solution, and something like cautious hope makes Theon’s heart beat faster. 

“What way?” 

“You have to marry a Northerner,” Robb says gently. “Then you’ll automatically get a Gold Card. It’s risky, but with the right person you could pull it off.” 

“And who,” Theon says, something hot and achy starting to curl in his stomach, “who would be the right person for that?” 

“Someone you know very well. Someone who knows you very well.” Robb’s smile turns harder, yet somehow sympathetic. “Someone you won’t have to pretend you have feelings for.” 

“That was a long time ago. I certainly don’t have _feelings_ –”

“Please,” Robb interrupts with a sardonic twitch of his mouth. “Keep lying to yourself, by all means, but don’t you dare lie to me.”

“Robb…” Theon sighs. “He won’t. He hates me.” 

“Aye, I know. But I also know my cousin.” Robb gets out his phone, typing something. “He’ll help you out, if only because he’s a good person. But Theon, the real question is – can you do it? After everything?” 

He doesn’t even have to think about it. 

“I’d do anything,” Theon says. “I’d marry the fucking devil himself if it means I don’t have to go back.” 

What’s a little torture in Snow’s presence against seeing Euron again anyway. 

***

_Then, Eighteen years earlier (Theon)_

The sand crunches softly as the footsteps come closer to Theon’s hiding place, stopping just in front of the rocks he’s crouching beneath. Theon curls in on himself, trying to be as small as possible in the hopes that whoever it is won’t see him. Maybe they’ll go away again. 

“If you think you could be mistaken for a hermit crab, you’re very wrong.”

Theon holds his breath, a flare of hope mingled with fear igniting in his belly. Slowly he cranes his head, peering up at his uncle looming over him. He’s scary, Theon’s uncle, with his wild grin and piercing blue eyes, but right now he looks rather docile, wagging his eyebrows when he sees Theon looking. 

“Come on, son. Get out of there and let me have a look.”

Theon sniffs, hesitant, but something in his uncle’s voice has a calming effect on him. He crawls out from the small space between the rocks that’s his favourite hiding place. He’s starting to get too big for it, but with a bit of squeezing and maneuvering he still fits. Finally he’s out, scrambling to his feet until he stands in front of Euron, head hanging low. 

“Now, now, don’t be daft, boy.” Euron’s finger lifts Theon’s chin. “There, it’s not so bad, only a small bruise. It’ll heal in no time.”

Theon nods. He knows that, of course. They always heal. But… 

“It’s my birthday today,” Theon whispers, ashamed of how small his voice sounds. “I asked for new clothes.” 

“Oh dear, oh dear.” Euron sighs, elegantly sinking down onto the sand, crossing his legs and patting the space beside him. “Yeah, Balon wouldn’t like that.” He shakes his head. “But to give his only son a black eye on his birthday… how old are you today, nephew?” 

“Eight,” Theon mutters, hugging his knees to his chest. “It was dumb of me, right, nuncie?” 

“Aye, a little.” But Euron smiles when he says it, slinging an arm around Theon’s shoulders and hugging him close. “Eight years already! Maybe it’s about time I took you under my wing a little. Wouldn’t hurt if you saw less of your father, eh?” 

Theon shrugs, not knowing what to say to that. Anything would be better than being around Father, but sometimes Euron makes goosebumps crawl all over Theon’s skin. Theon peers over. Right now, sitting cross-legged in the sun, Euron seems very normal, nice even. 

“Wait,” Euron says, patting down his pockets until he finds what he’s looking for. “Here, a little birthday gift.” 

Theon carefully takes it, studying the item in his hand. It’s a pocket knife, heavy and fancy-looking, and Theon can’t believe his luck. 

“This is – I can keep it?” 

“Sure! You’ll need it when we go out in my boat tomorrow. I’ll show you how to properly gut a fish. Shame no one has thought to teach you yet.”

Theon’s mouth falls open upon hearing that. Going out in Euron’s boat! Father has a boat too, but he only takes Asha with him since that one time when Theon had been sick. He’d been sick already before going out, but Father had been furious, berating Theon for his weakness, and has since refused to take him out to the sea ever again. At Theon’s shocked gaze Euron grins, winking – Theon leaps at him, throwing his arms around Euron’s neck. 

“Thank you, nuncie,” he cries, shrill with joy. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

_Now (Theon)_

Yesterday, after the pretty hag had left, Snow had vanished into his room for the rest of the day, only venturing out for bathroom breaks and to accept a chinese food delivery. But his scent had lingered, filtering from the bathroom into the living area until Theon had opened every window available, assaulting him with strawberry and mint and memories he doesn’t want to think of ever again. It’s no use. They’re not those boys anymore; at least Snow definitely isn’t. Snow still hates him, the only thing he shows a little passion about. And Theon doesn’t care anyway. But it’d still be nice if they could at least be civil. 

“Are you going to hang around here forever?” Snow grouses right into Theon’s thoughts. “I have absolutely no desire to spend all day in my room again.”

“No one’s forcing you,” Theon retorts, slowly starting to feel angry. “We can co-exist here, I’m sure.” Snow just snorts, and Theon has had enough. “Fine. FINE.” At least it’s Tuesday. He can walk around, maybe do a little shopping until it’s time for his meeting. “No need to wait up, _honey_ ,” he spits, menace colouring his words. “I have a date today.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SPOILERS in terms of Euron: He didn't touch Theon as a kid. That's shit I can't even write about, so no, not that. He *did* fuck Theon up pretty bad, in a different, still very dark way, but more of that will reveal later in the story. 
> 
> Any thoughts? Any questions?


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey dears! 
> 
> I know, I know, it's not Sunday. I just had such a shitty day yesterday, and today didn't turn out to be much better, so I thought as some sort of pick-me-up I'd post another chapter. Been writing like mad, so one mid-week surprise chapter won't do any harm. 
> 
> Back to Jon POV!

_Now (Jon)_

Jon stares at the door for a good ten minutes after it has fallen shut behind Greyjoy. A fucking _date_? They haven’t even been married for half a week and Greyjoy goes out on a date. Jon shakes his head, trying to clear it. He’s being ridiculous. Of course Greyjoy would continue dating, it’s not as if this is a real marriage and he has to be faithful. Still, Jon can’t help it. He’s upset. Mostly because if the hag gets wind of Greyjoy cheating – dating – whatever… Jon groans, burying his face in his hands. He doesn’t want to go to jail just because Greyjoy can’t keep his dick in his pants. 

And jail it’d be, for him at least. Greyjoy would get deported to his bloody islands like a fucking criminal. That at least makes Jon smile, if a little grimly. Greyjoy in handcuffs, stupid smile wiped off his face, that’s a tempting thought. Jon sighs, immediately feeling guilty. There are people who have stuff like this happening to them. Good people, who don’t deserve it. Unlike Greyjoy, who deserves everything coming for him. But this cannot happen. Jon can’t go to jail because of one tiny, soft-hearted moment. 

It’s all Robb’s fault. Hadn’t he mentioned the crying Jon wouldn't ever have said yes to this – this – _horror show_. Jon sighs again, getting up to throw the rest of his breakfast away. Disgusting idiot with his disgusting marshmallows, unable to keep his big mouth closed even for a minute. Anger bubbling up in him again, Jon grabs the cereal box Greyjoy has left standing on the counter, glaring at the colourful packaging as if it had insulted him. There’s a leprechaun on it, a rainbow, and lots of revolting-looking little sugar thingies. Jon hates sweet things. Screwing up his face, he opens one of the cupboard doors – and reels back in shock. The cupboard is packed with boxes and boxes of Lucky Charms. 

***

_Then, Eight years earlier (Jon)_

She’s… sweet. A little too sweet, Jon thinks. Her lips taste like alcohol and he’s not sure if he likes it. It’s very wet, too. But some of it feels pretty nice, the arms around his neck, the soft hair under his hands and her boobs squished against his chest. Definitely nice, Jon decides when Margaery presses closer, but then her tongue slips into his mouth and it’s too much, too slick and this part Jon doesn’t like at all. But it’s what people do, and it’s high time he tried it. So he squeezes his eyes shut and lets her, even going as far as kissing back tentatively. 

And there’s some part of him that seems to enjoy it despite himself, a hardening part, and Margaery gasps into his mouth when she wriggles against it. Thankfully she pulls away a little, giving Jon time to swallow an excess of saliva and get his breath back. 

“You like that, do you,” she coos, and wriggles some more. 

Politely, Jon nods, slightly dazed. She smirks, her face dimpling prettily and then she dives in again, enthusiastically so, and Jon nearly chokes on her tongue slipping deep into his mouth. This isn’t good anymore, too fast, too much at once and finally his traitorous dick seems to be on the same wavelength; it wilts away and Jon tries to move back. No such luck, her arms tighten around him like a vice and her tongue goes impossibly _deeper._ Everything is starting to swim before his eyes, he can’t breathe, and with a violent jerk Jon rips his head away, scrambling up so hastily Margaery nearly falls to the floor. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles and, stomach churning, he flees. 

***

_Now (Jon)_

Two hours later, Jon doesn’t know what to do. It’s not even eleven am and he’s cleaned the whole flat, has put the laundry into the machine after carefully separating Greyjoy’s clothes from his, and has made his bed for the second time, elbowing the offending guest pillow out of the way that Greyjoy had put into bed again in the morning. _For_ _pretenses._ Sure. Jon snorts derisively. Yes, he might be in on the flat too now, and paying the rent. But there’s nothing he could do to persuade Jon to give up his bed and move to the couch.

By lunchtime the Greyjoy part of the laundry is in the dryer, Jon has eaten a sandwich in lieu of the ruined breakfast and has zapped through all the channels, without finding anything worthwhile. He shifts on the – admittedly uncomfortable – couch. Having time off during the week is somewhat of a novelty, at least since he’d started his job a year ago. No holidays beside the public ones and the week between Christmas and New Year’s when the shop had been closed. But Jon had spent those days with his family, not rattling around his flat with no idea what to do. 

He tries to think of what he does on the weekends. On Saturdays he’s working until lunch, then does the shopping before he meets with the guys, usually for a few drinks and a game of cards, nothing too wild. On Sundays he does the cleaning and his washing – all done. He runs twice the distance as on weekdays – done too, even more than that to be out of Greyjoy’s vicinity as long as possible. The rest of Sunday he usually cooks his lunches for the next week, portioning and freezing them. Then it’s evening, he watches the prime time program and goes to bed. A good routine, Jon thinks, but rubbish for a day off in the middle of the week. 

At four pm Jon gives in to curiosity, walking into the bedroom and grabbing the book on the guest bedside table. It’s a worn paperback, black with huge orange letters reading, _THE TOMB,_ and an orange silhouette of a person and… Jon squints, tilting his head. A chain. Good gods. The author’s name, F. Paul Wilson, is printed on top, also in orange, giving the book a weird, rusty look. _KL Times bestseller!_ promises the cover, and Jon makes a dubious noise as he flips it open, sitting down on the bed. 

The first few chapters are okish, introducing an average alpha-male-loser protagonist, called Repairman Jack. A few pages in it becomes clear that Jack isn’t doing ordinary repairs, he’s more like a strange kind of assassin, _repairing_ situations instead of objects. He’s just been left by his girlfriend due to the nature of his job and his lifestyle, and soon he gets a new case he’s got to solve. All in all pretty uninteresting, and Jon puts the book down again, venturing back outside and to the couch. 

Maybe that’s what he should do, take up reading again. Jon sighs, turning the telly back on. He’s never been much of a reader, had always preferred going outdoors or playing Tekken with Robb and Greyjoy to reading. Come to think of it, when the fuck has Greyjoy turned into a reader? Jon absolutely can’t remember ever seeing him with a book. Ygritte had loved to read, had sometimes read out loud… that had been so nice, comfortable and homely, lying with his head in her lap while she read to him…

Jon takes out his phone, frowning at it. Maybe he should call Ygritte, ask her how she’s doing, have a little chat. They haven’t had one in ages – because she’s still somewhere north, with wonky internet connection, Jon remembers. Fuck. For some reason he suddenly misses her, a lot. Or maybe he’s just missing _someone,_ someone who belongs to him. Someone to do stuff with instead of sitting around and waiting like a moron. Jon’s thumb moves on its own, opening his contacts and scrolling through them until it stops at – Jon swallows dryly, his stomach jolting. 

_Theon <3 _

Sansa’s idea, that one. She always thinks of all the tiny details, and normally Jon loves her for it, but right now the name and the little heart make him want to throw his phone against the wall. Instead, Jon peers at the clock. It’s almost five pm, and the fucker still hasn’t shown his face! Thumb hovering over the offending contact, Jon hesitates. He could call him. Ask him if he’s lost his fucking mind, and what about the hag? Jon sighs, very deliberately placing his phone on the couch table, screen down. He’s going to do nothing of the sort, he’ll simply stay calm and collected. 

By six pm Jon is gritting his teeth. How long can a bloody midweek-afternoon-date take, for fuck’s sake? That’s not the usual time for a one-night-stand, is it? It’s more of a coffee-and-walk-through-the-park time. But then it’s Greyjoy, anything’s possible. Maybe it’s a coffee-and-sex-date. Or they skipped the coffee entirely and are just now merrily rolling through the sheets. At least that’d mean the hag isn’t going to see them, Jon supposes. Unless Greyjoy is shagging the hag, Jon has seen his admiring gaze. He tells himself to get a grip. Not even Greyjoy can be that stupid. 

By nine pm Jon stomps into the bathroom to brush his teeth, seething with anger. Seems like the coffee-and-a-walk-through-the-park-date has turned into marathon sex. Well, fine by him. He spits violently, gargling water so fiercely he nearly manages to drown himself. Jon’s gaze snaps up to the mirror, and his own reflection. Mirror-Jon looks like a rabid serial killer, literally frothing at the mouth, rage edged into his every feature, eyes bloodshot and crazed. 

_Smile. You’re too pretty to go around looking like a thundercloud._

Letting out a frustrated snarl Jon turns on his heels, marching out into the living area, then the hallway. With two quick moves Jon locks the door, both the regular and the security lock. Feeling a little better he takes a step back, trying the door. Bomb-proof. Jon smiles, satisfied. Humming tunelessly, he returns to finish brushing his teeth, prepares himself a cup of herbal tea and takes it into his bedroom. Tonight he’ll sleep with earplugs, and a clean conscience. 

Greyjoy can stay at his date’s. 

***

_Then, Eight years earlier (Jon)_

He nearly stumbles over him in the dark garden, only able to catch himself in the last second, eliciting a string of curses from the person he almost stepped on. Suspicious, Jon tries to make out Theon’s form where he’s sprawled out on the grass. 

“What are you doing there?” he asks. 

“No idea. Thinking,” comes the reply, making Jon snort. Theon’s voice sounds like he’s grinning. “Oh, come off it, Snowbell. And anyway, I could ask you the same. Didn’t I see you getting it on with the Tyrell girl?”

“Yeah,” Jon mutters miserably. He knows this’ll make him the butt of a month’s worth of jokes, minimum, but he says it anyway. “I ran away.”

“Oh dear.” A hand comes shooting out of nowhere, snatching Jon’s tee and tugging until he settles down onto the ground. “Not your type?” Theon’s voice asks next to him, and Jon shrugs. 

“I guess? Or maybe I’m just not into the whole kissing thing. It was… wet.”

A snort is the only answer he gets for a while and Jon has the distinct feeling Theon is having a silent laughing fit. Finally, he manages to pull himself together enough to reply.

“Or maybe you just didn’t kiss the right person. To me they’re all the same, but I hear some people need the feels to kiss someone.”

“You sound like you’re talking of the flu,” Jon states, causing another ripple of quiet amusement somewhere to his left. “Why don’t you go and snog her if they’re all the same anyway?”

“Don’t feel like it tonight.” It’s quiet for some time, but the silence doesn’t feel uncomfortable at all. At length Theon sighs. “Don’t tell anyone I said that, but I’m a bit maudlin. Not that I can’t wait to do my own thing, but…” 

Jon waits. This is a rarity, Theon being earnest for once. Finally Theon continues.

“I guess I’ll miss it in a way. This place. The kids. Robb, of course.”

“Not me?” Jon asks before he can stop his stupid mouth. Surprised at himself he shakes his head. He has no idea where that just came from, and anyway, why would Theon–

“Yeah. You too.”

***

_Now - very early (Jon)_

Jon shifts, blinking blearily into the darkness. He’s not sure if the dream has woken him, or something else. He pulls out one of the ear plugs, but everything stays quiet and calm. Yawning, Jon tangles his feet into his blanket, closing his eyes again. A soft breeze is coming in from the open window, stirring his hair, and Jon drifts back into sleep, hoping he’ll dream of something nicer this time – and sits up with a jolt when something crashes onto the floor, right beside his bed. 

“You little fucker,” snarls the loathsome voice, and a heavy body, reeking of booze and sweat, drops down next to Jon. “I’ll get you for this, Snow!”

One second later, before Jon can bring himself to react, an ear-splitting snore lets the bed quiver. Too flabbergasted to think straight, Jon gathers his blanket and his pillow, holding it against his crotch. And moves to the couch. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess Theon has a point when he says Jon is boring... but why is Jon so boring? Why is everything in his life so rigid and controlled? 
> 
> I have already mentioned the Repairman Jack books once, in Another Christmas Carol. Seriously, they are hilarious. The first one, The Tomb, is quite thrilling! It deals with Indian Culture a lot, but I'm not sure how well it does that since I don't know much myself. Stephen King said it was cool and without the usual stereotypes, but then Stephen King is not of Indian descent either afaik ^^'


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sunday! And thus chapter time :)
> 
> Can I just say, I love the overall consenus of you guys about Jon being petty and having control issues – you're all totally right! I'm curious to your opinions once we get to the bottom of Jon's hate for Theon... but not yet. Now it's the time for...

_Now (Jon)_

They don’t speak at all the next day. Greyjoy appears sometime in the early afternoon, clutching his head and moaning a lot as he stumbles into the bathroom. Hopefully to drown himself in the shower, Jon thinks nastily. No such luck though, after what feels like an eternity Greyjoy sways back into the living area. He’s still a little green in the face, but at least Jon can’t smell him from the kitchen table anymore. Deliberately ignoring Jon, Greyjoy pours himself a glass of water, downing it in one go before pouring another, which he takes back to Jon’s bedroom. 

“Hey, you can’t–” 

Bang! The door falls shut, cutting Jon off. He stares at it, contemplating if he shouldn’t just barge in there and drag him out by the scruff of his neck, when suddenly the lock clicks. Jon blinks. Greyjoy has locked the door. To Jon’s bedroom. He’s going to go to the DIY, Jon thinks vehemently. And he’s going to buy a bloody _axe._

Easier said than done, as it turns out, and for once Jon curses his proneness to have everything in order – he’s got no clothes. Only the bathrobe he’s wearing, and a pair of sweatpants that hadn’t been dry enough to be put into the dresser. 

Seething, Jon rattles at the bedroom door, without success. Fuck this! He needs to go out, do some shopping, go for his run… maybe he should just try to break the door open? Jon shakes his head at himself, trudging back into the bathroom to check the dryer once again in the hopes of perhaps having forgotten a shirt at the very back, when his eye is caught by something red in the corner with the laundry basket. Jon frowns. He doesn’t own anything red. He slinks closer, crouching down and pulling the red fabric out from behind the basket, cautiously, as if it could bite him at any moment. 

It’s a shirt. Greyjoy’s shirt, most probably. It looks like the one he’d been wearing when the hag had been here. Jon straightens, holding it an arm’s length away while he ponders his options. Finally he brings it to his face, hesitating for a moment before he sniffs it, prepared for the worst. But to his eternal surprise the shirt seems to be okay, and the only thing it smells of is a faint trace of Greyjoy’s favourite deodorant, and another scent Jon recognizes immediately. 

_Bloody hell._

Jon quickly peers into the living room, at the unchangedly closed bedroom door. Nothing, so he quickly pulls the shirt over his head, holding his breath until his head is free. It’s too long, the seam as well as the sleeves, but it’s still better than the bathrobe, at least for going to get groceries.

It’s a very short trip, and by the end of it Jon feels tired and exhausted, a strange sensation making his chest tighten. His eyes are stinging, there’s a lump in his throat he can’t seem to swallow, and the moment he’s back home he rips the shirt off, throwing it into the washing machine before climbing into the shower, trying to let the water wash away the scent – and the memories. 

***

_Then, Eight years earlier (Jon)_

Jon lies slumped backwards on the soft ground, nervously fiddling with the grass, plucking some blades and twisting them around his fingers. Neither of them has spoken a word since Theon’s unexpected answer. Jon doesn’t quite believe it. Theon Greyjoy, miss him? They don’t get along that well normally, don’t have anything in common but Robb. But maybe… if he’s honest with himself, Jon has to admit that he might be going to miss Theon too, just a little. 

“Snow? Are you still here?”

“I’m here,” Jon says, meaning to reach over and poke Theon to prove it. Instead his hand comes upon cold skin, and before he can pull back Theon’s long fingers have wrapped around Jon’s. 

“I will,” Theon says lightly. “Believe it or not. I’ve grown used to your dour face.” His grip tightens for a tiny moment. “Maybe it’s because I’m really going to go. Makes me realize what I’m leaving behind. Things I took for granted, or didn’t see – didn’t _want_ to see, maybe.”

Jon lets it happen, too stunned to move, or object. He’s not sure he _wants_ to object. Theon’s thumb is stroking Jon’s palm, describing tiny circles, and it sets Jon’s stomach aflutter. He’s scared to move, scared to break the fragile feeling hanging in the air. He’s grateful for the darkness, hiding his face from Theon’s eyes. But, as if to mock him, the clouds suddenly rip open, revealing a waxing moon, bright enough to bathe the garden in an eerie light. 

“Snowbell,” Theon says again, and it sounds like an endearment. “Will you miss me?”

Jon turns his head, finding Theon looking at him. His eyes are strangely bright, and somehow, in this moment, anything seems possible. 

“Yes,” he whispers, closing his eyes as Theon’s free hand hesitantly touches his face. 

***

_Now (Jon)_

On Thursday morning, after having spent another extremely uncomfortable night on the couch, Jon grudgingly knocks on his own bedroom door. When he doesn’t get any reaction whatsoever he knocks harder, finally starting to pound the wood with his fist, his face heating as anger bubbles up in his chest. 

“Greyjoy!” he bellows, kicking against the door and cursing when he hurts his foot in the process. “Open up, you fuckwit! I need my clothes! Greyjoy!” More hammering, still no reaction, and anger turns into fury. “GREYJOY!!!! I SWEAR I’LL KICK YOUR ARSE SO HARD YOU’LL FLY BACK TO THOSE ISLANDS WITHOUT NEEDING A FUCKING PLANE!!!”

“Are you out of your mind?” The door is ripped open, revealing a pissed-off looking Greyjoy. “Stop screeching like a fucking pterodactyl, you don’t know who’s listening!”

“Please,” Jon spits acidly, pushing past Greyjoy into the bedroom. “Do you really think the hag is crouching under the window with a tape recorder?” 

“You never know with these – fucking hell, Snow, what’s wrong _now?”_

Greyjoy sounds annoyed, jaded, but Jon doesn’t even hear what words are coming from Greyjoy’s mouth. He’s staring, aghast, at the battlefield before his eyes. There are clothes everywhere. _Everywhere._ In heaps on the floor, hanging over pieces of furniture, on the bed… Jon swallows as he looks at the bed. Everything is rumpled, the blanket in a hopeless tangle at the foot, both his pillows look slept on, a clatter of items is littering the bedside tables – and the smell. The whole room reeks of Greyjoy, of his cologne, of his hair products – it’s too much. Without saying a single word Jon turns on his heel, his shoulder harshly colliding with Greyjoy on his way out. 

Air, he needs air. He walks faster, almost running, tears pricking at his eyes. Finally Jon rips the front door open, slinging his arms around himself as he greedily breathes in the Greyjoy-free air outside. It’s ridiculous, utterly ridiculous, an overreaction, Jon’s aware of it. But this can’t go on for a year, he can’t bear it, he _can’t!_ Jon leans forward, propping himself up on his thighs to make the world stop spinning. Slowly it starts to get better, and at long last he’s able to stand upright again, if a little shaky. Jon draws another deep breath – and feels his whole body going rigid when he sees the car, and the person in the driver’s seat. 

“Hey.” 

Jon doesn’t turn around, keeps looking at the ground, shooting glances at the car from the corners of his eyes. 

“I’ve tidied up,” Greyjoy says in his back. He sounds sheepish, almost as if he’s meaning to apologize. “I think – look, I can’t sleep on the couch anymore, okay? But I didn’t – Snow? Are you listening?” 

“She’s here,” Jon hisses at him, gritting his teeth as he turns around, glaring at Greyjoy. “The bloody woman from the immigration office. She’s in the red car, right – _stop looking, you bloody imbecile!”_

“Fucking hell,” Greyjoy says, but at least he’s not gaping at her anymore. “She’s taking her job a tad too serious.” 

Jon blinks, barely listening. She’s watching them. And he stormed out like the biggest idiot, and now they’re standing here, wooden and too far apart and she’ll see them and realize–

“Kiss me.” It’s almost a growl, low and threatening. “Kiss me, you bloody mor–”

Jon doesn’t have time to finish his sentence, the rest of the insult being swallowed by Greyjoy’s mouth. He descends on Jon like a hawk, his hand tangling in Jon’s hair, gripping it tightly as he tilts Jon’s head and takes his mouth. For a moment Jon’s instincts tell him to jerk away, punch Greyjoy in the face hard enough his head’ll hurt for days – and then he remembers the hag, remembers what they’re trying to do here. It’s a monstrous effort, but finally he succeeds. Jon’s body goes slack; he leans against Greyjoy, becomes pliant under his hands as he returns the kiss. 

***

_Then, Eight years earlier (Jon)_

Their lips meet with a light touch, barely there, but the way his body reacts to it is quite violent. The grassy ground beneath Jon seems to tilt, he forgets to breathe, his body going numb as all his focus remains on one single feeling. The kiss is warm, gentle, it isn’t frightening or rough. Theon’s fingers graze Jon’s face, his cheek, stroke back strands of hair behind his ear. Everything is so soft. 

Theon pulls away first, not far, just far enough to give Jon a moment to inhale deeply. His hand stays where it is, toying with Jon’s curls, wrapping them around his fingers. 

“Is this…” Theon starts, hesitates. “Can I..?”

Jon doesn’t even bother to nod, tilting his head forward until his mouth is pressed to Theon’s. Something like a chuckle rumbles through Theon’s chest, his lips opening slightly. Jon follows his lead, does the same, shivering when it turns the kiss slippier. Theon’s lips close around Jon’s bottom lip, he sucks lightly, the softest touch, and Jon gasps, fire erupting in his belly. 

His hand wanders over Theon’s chest, down his waist, onto his back where it comes to a halt, unsure what to do. Theon seems to know. He lets go of Jon’s hair, stroking his neck, his back, urging Jon closer to him until they’re pressed together. His mouth is gentle, he nibbles on Jon’s lip, outlining it with the tip of his tongue but never venturing further, never going too far. 

It’s perfect. 

After a long time Theon finally moves back, placing a last, lingering kiss to the corner of Jon’s mouth. 

“You’re so sweet,” he murmurs, nosing along Jon’s face. “I thought you would be. All sour demeanour, you had to taste sweet beneath it.”

Jon doesn’t know what to say. This, all of it, comes so surprisingly, so out of the blue… Theon’s words and actions, Jon’s own, the startling surge of feelings. And there _are_ feelings, there’s no doubt about that. They make his throat dry, they make his heart beat faster than normal and his eyes prickle with something he can’t name. It’s frightening, and exhilarating. 

Theon sighs, winding out of Jon’s embrace, and sits up. “Time to go back inside,” he says and Jon’s stomach jolts with disappointment. That’s it then, he thinks, when Theon turns his head, smiling at him. “Come with me?”

***

_Now (Jon)_

This kiss is nothing like the ones he doesn’t want to remember, not soft, not gentle. It’s a bite, greedy and all too real. And Jon has forgotten how to stop. There’s no stopping, instead he slings his arms around Greyjoy’s neck, pressing against him, desperate for more. It carries on and on, and Jon barely registers how he’s almost lifted off the ground, how his legs work on their own account, stumbling along as Greyjoy walks him back inside, crowds him against the wall. He hardly draws back long enough to give them both time to breathe before he dives back in, and Jon lets him, lets him suck on his lower lip, kiss along his jaw, latch onto his neck...

“ _Fuck_ ,” Greyjoy mutters, just that one word, but it’s enough to break the spell. 

Jon freezes beneath him, his stomach lurches, he shoves him away, panting for breath. Greyjoy moves back, looking at Jon with a questioning gaze, brows gathering. 

“Snow, what–” 

“Fuck off,” Jon whispers. “Do me the one favour and fuck off.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...KISSEEEEEES 😁😁😁 
> 
> Sooooo the start of the end is nigh. Hope you liked the chapter! Next chapter we will lift the mystery of who Theon's 'date' is (but I bet some if not all of you have already figured it out, right? Any theories in the comments please 😁)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and welcome to another Thursday chapter, because I have absolutely zero patience (and writing is still going ok!) 🙈
> 
> Are we ready for Theon's 'date'? 
> 
> (A bit of Cat-bashing coming again, I can't help myself. While I love her character in the books/show, I can never forgive her treatment of Jon, and she makes a damn fucking good antagonist without being a real villain ^^')

_Now (Theon)_

“I’ll give you a Rayquaza for your Shiny Mewtwo,” Theon says, idly scrolling through his list of pokemon he’s got available for trading. “Or I could give you a Palkia.” 

_Dream on,_ Wex signs, a little indistinct due to the phone in his hand. It’s an Iphone 8, with a large crack running over the display, his birthday gift from Theon this year. The crack Wex had made deliberately, to make it look old and worthless. Otherwise his mum’s current boyfriend would’ve stolen and sold it immediately. _I’ve been in six raids yesterday, I don’t need a fucking Rayquaza. Shadow Mewtwo or nothing._

“You’re driving a hard bargain, kiddo,” Theon mutters. “Fine, but only if I get the Galarian Zigzagoon.” 

_The badger thing? Sure, that one’s shite anyway._

“When I evolve it into Obstagoon it looks like Gene Simmons,” Theon states, reluctantly clicking his precious Shadow Mewtwo to send over to Wex. “Nothing cooler than a pokemon that looks like the Demon.” 

_Yeah, whatever, gramps._

Wex rolls his eyes, clicking away on his phone, and a few moments later Theon is in the happy possession of both the Shiny Mewtwo and the Galarian Zigzagoon. He hadn’t been into the franchise at all, having been too old when the anime had first come out. But it’s been Wex’ favourite obsession for a while, and Theon has to admit that it’s entertaining enough, walking around and collecting little monsters to compete in trainer battles. Or whip Team Rocket’s arses. 

_There’s a raid over in the park in ten minutes,_ Wex signs. _Rayquaza again._

Theon grins to himself as he shakes his head at the implied question. Somehow that kid’s fingers manage to make the words look sarcastic. It had been surprisingly easy, learning WSL, once Theon had actually buckled down to master the language. In no time at all he’d known the basics, and by now he’s a pro, especially with Wex. 

_What’s wrong with you today anyway?_ Wex lightly hits his heel against Theon’s shin. _You haven't even touched your brownie._

Wordlessly, Theon takes the little cup sitting next to him on the park bench, holding it out to Wex. He takes it, setting his phone down on his thigh as he digs in. 

_You’re missing out,_ Wex signs once he’s done, stacking the paper cup in his own, long emptied one. _Since when do you not want your brownie?_

“Dunno,” Theon mutters, closing the Pokemon Go app to see if he’s missed any messages or notifications. A text from Sansa about meeting up for coffee, a few new recommendations on Youtube. No calls, and Theon feels stupid for having expected one. He’s not sure Jon even has his phone number. And if he had, he’d definitely not call Theon. Especially not after what had gone down in the morning. 

It’s hard to concentrate on anything, even his favourite buddy, with the feeling of Jon’s mouth still burning on Theon’s, the taste of him still lingering, too good to be chased away by some dumb brownie. Nothing has changed. It’s infuriating, to find that Jon still tastes the same after all those years, sweet and hot and overall way too delicious for Theon’s peace of mind. He shudders as he recalls the look in Jon’s eyes when Theon had stopped kissing him for just a second, molten and deep, blazing not with the innocent longing of a teenager, but the want of a man. _God,_ Theon wants him, so much it’s tying up his stomach in knots.

Theon sighs, fiddling with his wedding ring, twisting it around his finger – and flinches when suddenly a bony hand appears in front of his face, waving indignantly. 

_Hello, earth to Theon,_ Wex signs impatiently once Theon looks at him. _What the fuck, dude? You totally zoned out!_

“Sorry, sorry,” Theon mumbles apologetically. “It’s just – things with Jon have gotten from bad to worse today and I’m a bit thrown off.” 

He feels guilty for his lapse in attention. They only meet two times a week, Tuesdays and Thursdays, when Wex’ mother is at her _church_ meetings – AA meetings, really, and while Theon commends her for trying again, he sure as hell won’t let a word of it slip to Wex, not before she’s proven she can stay on track this time. The boy’s had too many disappointments already. 

They had met five years ago, Theon and Wex, as part of a program Robb had needled Theon into participating in. It’s called Big Brother, and it brings underprivileged kids from rough backgrounds together with adults who take them out of their daily lives, for a treat, for some time away, or just to lend a sympathetic ear to listen to the young ones’ troubles. Which seems ironic, considering which kid Theon had been assigned to. He remembers how envious he’d been of Robb, how jealous of the six-year-old boy he’d been assigned to. Cute as a button, enthusiastic and hanging onto Robb’s every word from the start – and Theon had gotten Wex. 

At that time Wex had been eight years old, skinny and pointy, with an unruly tangle of dark brown hair and the surliest face Theon had ever seen on a kid, including Jon. _He doesn’t talk,_ the pretty young woman who had introduced them had told Theon. _There’s no medical reason, he just doesn’t seem to want to. It’s called selective mutism._ She’d told Theon a bit more about Wex’ background, father absent, mother an alcoholic with frequently changing partners, some of which had been violent and abusive. Theon had felt sorry for him, but he’d also been annoyed to be stuck with the mute, unfriendly kid, not particularly cute and not particularly keen on pleasing anyone, least of all some random guy being presented to him as his new big brother. 

_Listen, kiddo,_ Theon had said when they’d been left alone to get to know each other. _I won’t pretend I understand why you won’t talk. I love talking. But we’re going to give this a shot, you and me, alright? And since you’re not talking, I bet you’re a damn good listener._

And Theon had talked, twice a week for a couple hours, had rambled on about every topic he could come up with, without ever getting as much as a shrug in return. Until that day about six months into their arrangement, when the letter had come from Pyke. The letter telling Theon his father was dead, and his uncle Euron had taken over as head of the family business. That day Theon had been tired, careless, had talked about his own family, his own upbringing, his own bruises and scars. And for the first time, Wex had listened, had shown a reaction. 

From there it had gone fast. They’d learned WSL together to give Wex, still firmly refusing to speak out loud, a way to communicate, and Theon had noticed how clever the kid really is. They had become friends, and apart from Sansa, Wex is the only one who knows everything about Theon. Almost everything, that is. He doesn’t know the details about Euron. He doesn’t know all about the _thing_ with Jon. 

_What did you do this time?_ Wex asks, eyes sparkling with mirth. _Did you leave your hair in the shower drain?_

“Worse,” Theon says, heaving a sigh. It’s pathetic, resorting to pouring his heart out to a thirteen-year-old kid who’s interested in nothing but pokemon and food and Harrenhal United, but he needs to tell _someone_. Theon turns his head, looking at Wex with a sheepish smile. “I kissed him.”

***

_Then, Eight years earlier (Theon)_

The look on Jon’s face when he takes his hand makes Theon’s heart beat faster: bewildered, unsure, with just enough cautious hope to make Theon throw all his good intentions overboard. _One kiss,_ he’d told himself when he’d touched Jon’s moonlit face, just one kiss to know what it’s like before he leaves. And then... it’d been too good not to want more. He tugs at Jon’s hand, pulling him inside where the playlist changes to _Somebody To Love_ just as they walk through the door. Jon blushes up to his ears, looking as if he wishes the floor would swallow him, but he still lets Theon maneuver him into the middle of the room where some couples are already dancing. 

They slowly move to the music, and Jon keeps hiding his face against Theon’s shoulder, refusing to look up. When Theon starts to lowly sing along, he can feel Jon shivering. It makes him tighten his hold, and finally Jon looks up, eyes wide and very dark, and Theon tilts his head, kisses that sweet mouth once more. On some level he knows this isn’t a good idea, he’s not the type to commit to someone, especially not when he’s about to move out, live his own life. He wanted to know what it would be like, kissing Jon, and now that he does – Jon sighs, eyes falling shut as he leans against Theon, lips opening, and _God_ _have mercy…_

Maybe he can try, see where it’ll take them. He’s never been of the most imaginative sort, but now tiny glimpses flash before Theon’s eyes, of Jon and him together. Eating ice cream at the lake promenade, watching a movie together, going for a boat ride, playing playstation games… all the things they usually do together, him and Jon and Robb and sometimes the kids, but in these glimpses now it’s only the two of them, arms wrapped around each other and their lips pressed tightly together. 

_Yes,_ Theon thinks vaguely, burying his hands in Jon’s hair as he deepens the kiss, maybe he could just give it a try. 

***

_Now (Theon)_

“There, that’s how it happened.” 

Theon kicks his feet, shrugs almost defiantly. He doesn’t like admitting to it, it goes against everything he always thought he knew about himself, against who he wants to be. But somehow, on that fucking Saturday night eight years ago, Theon had completely and utterly fallen in love.

 _You’re so fucked, dude,_ Wex signs, rolling his eyes. _But what I really want to know – how the fuck did you manage to screw everything so thoroughly?_

“Do you really, _really_ want to know?” Theon gives Wex a suspicious glance. “I thought you were bored to death by my ramblings about Jon.”

 _Are you kidding me? This is way better than The Bold and the Beautiful._ Wex grimaces. _Don’t look at me like that, my mum likes to watch it, okay?_

“Yeah, suure,” Theon drawls, oomphing when Wex’ pointy elbow hits his ribs. “Alright, alright, no need to resort to violence, kiddo!” 

***

_Then, Eight years earlier (Theon)_

He doesn’t see her until it’s too late, only noticing something’s wrong when suddenly someone stops the music, an eerie quietness settling over the room. Theon looks up, right into Catelyn’s stony face. She’s standing at the foot of the stairs, her hair rumpled, her arms crossed before her chest. Her icy gaze is fixed on him, and slowly Theon lets go of Jon, putting on his most charming smile.

“Cat,” he says, congratulating himself on how light his voice sounds. “Have we been too loud? I’m sorry if we woke you…” 

He trails off, looking around the room; at Sansa, trying to sit as still as possible next to Loras; Arya with a cup in her hands; and Robb, swaying precariously, his face red and heated, so very obviously drunk. 

“Look, Catelyn,” Theon tries, “I know how this must–” 

“I’d like to have a word with you,” she interrupts him, her voice only betraying a hint of the anger Theon knows is broiling behind the cool facade. 

She turns and climbs the stairs, and Theon gives Jon a reassuring wink before he follows her upstairs and into her bedroom. Theon looks around curiously, at the large double bed she sleeps alone in since Ned’s passing, the rumpled sheets, and to his embarrassment he can’t help his face heating up. Catelyn pointedly clears her throat.

“Close the door,” she says, waiting for Theon to do so. “I know you think you’re an adult now, and I know I can’t tell you what to do and what not anymore. But that boy is still my responsibility and I won’t have you–” 

“I’m sorry, okay?” Theon says quickly, raising his hands. “I know I should’ve kept Robb off the alcohol, I’m sorry. I won’t let him near anything like that again, promise.” 

“I’m not talking about Robb.” Catelyn narrows her eyes. “I’m talking about Jon.” 

Theon stares at her, not knowing what to say to that. Jon? What about _Jon_? 

“I knew you had a slight… infatuation with the boy.” Catelyn sighs, rubbing her temples. “Gods, this is giving me a headache.” When she looks back at Theon he flinches from the weary look in her eyes. “But I have to say you surprise me, Theon,” she continues. “I’d never have thought you’d act on it. You don’t strike me as the type for something… more serious. Whereas Jon–”

“Since when,” Theon interrupts her, “do you concern yourself with Jon?” He’s starting to feel angry. 

“I won’t in two more years.” There’s a smugness to her tone that sets Theon on edge. “But until then he’s still a minor in my care. I am responsible for his wellbeing, and I won’t have someone like you – a legal adult, as you’re so fond of reminding me – toy with him for the sake of a laugh.” 

Theon opens his mouth, about to tell her that he isn’t kissing Jon just for a laugh, but then he swallows the words back down. In a way she’s not wrong. The way he’s feeling now – he can’t say for sure how long it’ll last, what he’ll think tomorrow. Maybe it’s just the moment, the party, the fact that he won’t be living here anymore. Maybe it’s just nostalgia.

“Thought so.” Cat smiles, tight-lipped and humourless. “I suggest you go down there and tell the boy in uncertain terms that this is all there is to be had.” 

Theon swallows; the smile is almost enough to make him snap at her, tell her where to stick her suggestion. 

“Of course you can always wait,” Cat says, her smile widening. “Two years aren’t a long wait for something that you really want.” 

Two years… wait for Jon to be of age, for two years? Two fucking years of not having him – nor anyone else. He knows Jon well enough. And that’d be a dealbreaker. No, he can’t wait two years. Even if the mere thought makes his stomach churn painfully… Theon knows himself. He takes a deep breath, nods. 

“Good. And don’t even think about going about this behind my back.” Catelyn walks past Theon to the door, where she turns back to him. “You wouldn’t want me to inform your father of your… preferences, would you?” 

***

_Now (Theon)_

_Wow, what a bitch!_ Wex looks gratifyingly put out. _So you went down and broke his heart? Is that why he’s still so mad? Seems a bit of an overreaction, really. I mean, you just made out this once, right?_

“Right,” Theon says, pointedly looking at his phone. “Sorry, kiddo, I have to drive you home now. Not that I’m looking forward to going back to hell, but. You know.” 

_No, I don’t._ Wex scowls impressively, his hands moving lightning fast. _What did you say to him back then? What happened today? Come on, I need to know!_

“Maybe another time.” 

Theon holds his hand out for the empty paper cups, throwing them in a nearby trashcan before he slowly walks towards his car, Wex on his heels, signing furiously, but Theon pretends he’s not seeing the many questions. Truth is – he doesn’t want to talk about it. He hadn’t even wanted to talk about it with Robb, his best friend, when he’d cornered him after the party had been over, and he definitely doesn’t want to talk about it now, with no one. Not now, not ever. It’s too fucking embarrassing, talking about how he’d managed to break his own fucking heart along with Jon’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's my first time writing Wex and since I really like that boy I hope I've done him justice.
> 
> Sooo... Theon is pretty fucked, it seems. Jon? He's also fucked, but in an entirely different way^^ More to that as usual on Sunday!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi on Sunday! Hope you all had/are having a good weekend. Mine was meh, I was so tired I slept most of it and now I'm exhausted from doing nothing. 
> 
> I have to say I'm so glad you all like Wex so much, that boy has a special place in my heart, be it as a sarcastic teen or a blabbering baby crab :) 
> 
> Hope you enjoy Jon's next chapter... the boy is in uproar once again XD

_Now (Jon)_

It takes a good half hour before Jon manages to get his breathing back under control after Greyjoy is finally gone, and it takes even longer before the painful arousal coursing through his body finally simmers down to a bearable level. He shouldn’t be so surprised, Jon thinks rather grumpily, not really. It’s been one and a half years since he’d last had sex, of course his body would react like this. Oh well, there’s a way to solve this particular problem, having the added bonus of giving him something to do. If only for twenty minutes. 

As it turns out, that had been a gross overestimation. It hardly takes more than two seconds, with Jon’s fingers wrapped around his dick and his lips tingling as he recalls Greyjoy’s touch on them, and after barely a couple strokes Jon spills over his hand, a mixture of pleasure and resentment coursing through his body. He doesn’t really feel better now, either, still restless, still agitated, enough so that he washes his hands right there in the kitchen sink, and only when there’s no towel to dry off Jon realizes what he’s done. 

_Fuck. Fuck this!_

Muttering every swear word he can think of under his breath, Jon crouches, opening the cabinet where he keeps his cleaning supplies – and flinches back so hard he rudely lands on his arse, staring at the content of the cabinet in disbelief. There, next to the bucket filled with detergents, sponges and cleansers, three leprechauns are grinning out at Jon from the packaging of three boxes of Lucky Charms. Jon blinks, not sure if he’s hallucinating. What in the bloody hell did that idiot do? Buy them in bulk? Shaking slightly, Jon scrambles to his feet, taking the three boxes out of the cabinet and placing them on the counter. He’s going to bin them. He’s going to fucking–

Jon straightens, the lightbulb going on in his head almost blinding him. _Yes, that’s it!_ His mouth quirking up, Jon opens his utility drawer, picking out a large box cutter and a roll of clear tape. He starts to smile when he turns the first box of cereals upside down, carefully cutting it open at the bottom. The smile turns into a grin as Jon pours the contents of the box into the biggest bowl he can find, taking it with him to the couch, along with a smaller bowl. Whistling to himself, Jon sits down and starts picking out all the tiny little marshmallows, pink and blue and green and yellow, sorting them into the smaller bowl until nothing is left in the big bowl but plain, good old cereals. 

Still whistling, Jon walks back to the kitchen counter, pouring the cereals back into the box before meticulously taping it closed again. He turns it around, shaking it by way of trial. Absolutely secure. Feeling some semblance of peace for the first time since agreeing to the whole fake marriage, Jon opens his cabinets, clearing them of all the boxes of Lucky Charms. This will take a while.

Two hours later all the boxes are back in the cabinets, and Jon feels exhausted. His fingers are sticky, his couch table is dusted with a layer of gods know whatever is in those ghastly cereals, and now he’s stuck with a bowl full of marshmallows. Jon frowns at them, unsure what to do. Not in the trash, where Greyjoy could see them, should he open the trash can for some reason. Not that he’s taken out the trash a single time so far, but to be on the safe side… 

Jon sighs, racking his brain for a solution. Down the toilet? They should pretty much dissolve in water, being nothing but pure sugar, but what if they don’t? Horror scenarios of having to explain to a plumber how he managed to clog up his toilet with marshmallows shoot through Jon’s mind, and with a shudder he discards the idea. But then what? Jon peers into the bowl, absentmindedly nibbling on his thumb and cringing at the vile, sugary taste – oh. 

Jon licks his lips, gingerly picking up a green marshmallow. He screws his eyes shut, opening his mouth and placing it on his tongue. Ugh. The sweet taste immediately overpowers the taste of Greyjoy’s mouth that had still been lingering. Jon swallows, grimacing. He could kill two flies with one stone it seems, getting rid of the marshmallows _and_ the unwanted taste in his mouth all at once. It’s a lot of sugar… Jon sighs, grimly straightening his shoulders. One time isn’t going to kill him. Probably. Thus resolved, he goes to get himself a spoon and the milk, and with death-defying courage he starts wolfing the marshmallows down. 

***

_Then, Eight years earlier (Jon)_

“That’s what I call quick work,” a sweet voice says beside Jon, making his shoulders hunch around his ears. 

Someone has turned the music back on, softer than before, and people aren’t dancing anymore, just standing around and chatting. 

“You must think I’m a horrible person,” Jon mutters guiltily. “I’m sorry, I really am.”

“Oh dear…” 

Margaery laughs, a nice sound, and Jon carefully turns to look at her. She’s smirking, her cheeks dimpling again, and to Jon’s relief she doesn’t look angry with him at all. 

“I should’ve listened to Loras,” she says. “He said he thinks you’re playing for his team, but you’re pretty enough I wanted to give it a try anyway.” Margaery sighs, shrugging a little. “I want to have some fun before Loras finally gets his head out of his arse and asks me to be Renly’s beard.” 

“Renly’s – I’m sorry?” Jon doesn’t understand a single word she’s saying. 

“His beard, Jon, jeez, are you slow?” Margaery rolls her eyes. “His alibi girlfriend, a reason why he’s going to hang out at our place so often, seeing my brother so often… you’re lucky, you know?” She gives him a long look. “You can go around, kissing the boy you like, and no one bats an eye. Renly’s family is… different.”

Oh. _Oh._

“I’m not gay,” Jon says, surprised. “At least I don’t think I am? I mean, I like girls, I liked kissing you until – not that there’s anything wrong with how you – sorry,” he finishes lamely. 

“Don’t worry about it, darling.” Margaery winks. “I can live with not being your type. Maybe you’re bi, or you could be demi.” At Jon’s bemused gaze she laughs. “You have a lot to learn, Jon. Demisexual means you feel sexual attraction only to people you have feelings for. Have you been in love with Greyjoy long? I have to say I’m a little surprised. That boy has been fucking everything with a pulse since he first learned what goes where, but you always seemed a little more shy.” 

“I’m not in love with him,” Jon says slowly, truthfully. “I mean, we haven’t been the best of friends ever since he came here, and sure, it’s going to be different, now that he’s moving out, maybe we could become friends…” The butterflies in Jon’s stomach start to squirm again at the thought, making him grimace. “I guess I never thought he could be an option? But he kissed me and… I liked it.” The last part is a whisper, and Jon can feel his cheeks burning. “I think I do like him, a little.” 

There could be something, Jon can’t deny it. Something different, something more than just a vague sense of maybe liking Theon after all. He’s always been aware of him, resenting him for stealing Robb, annoyed with his attitude, his jokes and his tendency to take nothing serious… but also admiring him in a way, enjoying his tall tales, profiting from his witty ideas… there’s something there, a small glow that may have been there all along. Jon shakes himself to order. It’s just as Margaery said, Theon’s not the type for that. 

“It’s a moot point,” Jon says with a sigh. “I’m sure this was only a spur of the moment thing. He’ll probably have forgotten about me by the time he comes down again.” 

“Are you sure about that?” Margaery asks, nodding at the stairs. 

Jon follows her gaze, and the butterflies in his stomach start flipping their shit when he sees Theon coming down, his face hard, his eyes glittering with something Jon can’t make out. He makes a beeline for Jon, still unsmiling, still with that look in his eyes, and Jon gives him a questioning gaze. 

“Was Catelyn angry? Did–” 

Theon’s hands slide into Jon’s hair, his lips swallowing the rest of Jon’s sentence. This kiss is harder, more forceful, there’s an edge to it that sends chills down Jon’s spine. 

“I need to talk to you,” Theon says once he breaks the kiss, leaving Jon feeling dizzy and gasping for air. “Somewhere private.” 

And with that he pulls Jon away from the rest of the party, back out into the garden.

***

_Now (Jon)_

The nausea starts immediately, raging through Jon’s belly with a force that makes him groan. He stumbles over to the sink, not even bothering with a glass as he turns on the tap, greedily gulping down water. It tastes sweet, and in his desperation Jon rips the fridge door open, taking a carton of orange juice. It tastes sweet too, the marshmallows drowning out the acid in a way that almost makes Jon lose the battle against his churning stomach then and there. He rushes into the bathroom, cringing at the taste of his toothpaste, but after thoroughly brushing his teeth and gargling mouthwash like a maniac, the sweetness finally starts to fade, together with the waves of nausea. 

Jon exhales a shaky breath, staring at himself in the mirror. He’s white as a ghost, his pupils are blown, and everything seems strangely blurry. He drags himself to the couch, perching on the edge. His hands are shaking, his legs tremble, and there’s a muscle twitching in his face, irritating and annoying. Jon blinks, trying to get his vision back to normal, but the blurriness remains. He can’t sit still. Jon’s head is starting to throb. He needs fresh air, needs to do _something_. 

Jon stumbles into the hallway, crouching down. His fingers are twitching so much he can barely tie his running shoes, but finally he succeeds, and with a desperate groan Jon shoves the front door open. It falls shut in his back, and for a moment Jon fleetingly wonders if he hasn’t forgotten something… nevermind. He can deal with whatever it is later. Now he needs to run.

Jon runs. And a part of him wonders what he’s running from. 

***

_Then, Eight years earlier (Jon)_

“Look, Snowbell. Jon.” Theon sighs, driving a hand through his hair. “ _Fuck_.” 

He’d dragged Jon into the garden shed where he’d let go of his hand, taking a step back. Theon’s not looking at Jon, nervously letting his gaze dance over the shed. A heavy feeling of sadness settles in Jon’s stomach as he reads Theon’s face. He’s not surprised at what he sees there. He’d expected this, had known something like this would be coming. 

“I had a lot of fun tonight,” Theon starts again, interrupting himself with another curse. “Fuck, Snow, don’t look at me like that.” 

Jon averts his eyes, staring at the ground. There’s an overflowing ashtray half shoved under a shelf, and for a fleeting moment Jon wonders who in this house would secretly smoke out here. 

“It’s not – you’re only sixteen. And I’m on my way to live my own life, and I can’t see – fuck this shit!” 

Jon starts when Theon’s hands thread in his hair, when his face is tilted up and Theon’s mouth is on his, a flurry of hard, urgent kisses that make Jon’s chest tighten. 

“Sorry,” Theon pants, letting go of Jon as if he’s electric all of a sudden. “God. What I’m trying to tell you–” 

“I know what you’re trying to tell me.” Jon swallows, giving Theon a quick glance. His face is a grimace, as if he’s having a stomach ache. “It’s – don’t worry. I didn’t expect you to – you don’t need to explain.” 

“What do you mean? You didn’t expect… what?” 

“For you to mean anything by it.” Jon swallows, horrified when tears start to prick at his eyes. It’s not as if… he’s sad, yes, but he _had_ been expecting it. Damn his tendency to cry at every tiny thing! “Of course I’d hoped – but I’m not surprised. It’s alright. I knew this would be it.” 

“You–” Theon raises his hand, lets it fall back again. “Jon, are you _crying_?” 

Jon shakes his head, not trusting his voice enough to answer. The tears have started to flow, running down his cheeks, dripping off his chin and making dark spots on the dusty shed floor. He’s angry with himself for making such a scene. “I’m okay,” he finally mutters, dragging his sleeve over his face before he looks up at Theon with a wobbly smile. “Really. Hey, maybe we could just, I don’t know, hang out together again sometime? You and me and Robb I mean. There doesn’t have to – I don’t–”

Another wave of tears makes Jon’s vision blurry, but he still sees the sudden distorting of Theon’s mouth, as if he’d heard something utterly ridiculous. And maybe it was a ridiculous thing to say, Jon thinks. Why would Theon ever want to hang out with him? They’ve never been friends, and they won’t be just because of some kisses. 

“Sorry,” Theon mumbles at length. “I have to – I’ll see you around, I guess.” 

This time Jon doesn’t look up, turning his face away from Theon until he’s safely gone. Jon takes a deep breath, trying to get himself back together. It’s not as if this is the end of the world. Yes, there had been something… there could’ve been something. But it won’t happen, and that’s okay. Theon will move out, and while they’ll definitely see each other again as long as Robb is living at home, Theon won’t be here anymore. It won’t be hard to get over it. Jon wipes his eyes, trying to assess his feelings. His chest feels tight, his heart heavy, but there’s no cloying sadness, no desperation. Nothing too bad. He’ll be fine in a day or two. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Theon did NOT break Jon's heart, only his own. But why, you may wonder, does Jon hate Theon so much then? The next chapter will tell a bit more^^
> 
> Thoughts? Questions? More theories? You guys are so observant!!!
> 
> PS: I may or may not have tested the effect of eating a lot of marshmallows myself for the sake of science... good fucking gods!!!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thursday again. Ugh. This year trickles past at an incredible speed. *sigh*
> 
> ANYWAY. With marshmallow-gate behind us, let's see how Theon reacts to it. Oh, and let's find out how he managed to fuck up back then.

_Now (Theon)_

Apprehension tying his stomach in knots, Theon opens the door to the flat. The lights are on and Jon’s keys are hanging on their little hook. He must be home then, probably lurking around the corner with a rolling pin or something like that, ready to strike Theon down. 

“Snow?” he calls out tentatively, peering into the brightly lit kitchen. “I’m coming in, okay? Please don’t kill me.” 

When there’s no answer Theon frowns, venturing further into the flat. Nothing. Jon’s not on the couch, nor anywhere else in sight, and for a moment something like worry flits through Theon’s mind. Where can he be? Jon really isn’t the type to up and go, leaving his keys behind and all the lights on. Carefully, in case Jon is sleeping, Theon peers into the bedroom. Nothing, only silence and the crudely made bed Theon had left behind after tidying up. There’s no sound coming from the bathroom, but Theon checks that too, only to find it as empty as the rest of the flat. 

Theon sighs, finally going to take off his shoes before he settles on the couch, switching the telly on. Jon’s pillow still lies on one side, looking utterly inviting, and suddenly exhaustion takes over and Theon slumps to the side, burying his face in the soft fabric and closing his eyes. And there it is, the unobtrusive scent of mint and strawberries, the scent of Jon’s hair. Theon sniffles, wrapping his arms around his torso when the old ache creeps up on him again – only this time he doesn’t try to fight it. This time he simply gives in. 

***

_Then, Eight years earlier (Theon)_

Theon barely sees where he’s going, his gaze blurred, his stomach a tight knot of pain. This shouldn’t hurt so much. It’s nothing, there’s been nothing but a few kisses. It doesn’t matter, it _shouldn’t_ matter, it – Jon’s face surfaces in Theon’s mind, tears streaking his cheeks, and Theon groans, stopping at the foot of the steps to the patio, almost doubling over, his breath hitching. _Why does it hurt so fucking much?_ He’s broken hearts before, why should it be different just because it’s Jon? 

A movement in one of the upper windows has Theon look up, at a dark silhouette standing in the master bedroom window, and Theon quickly looks away again. He can feel her gaze on him as if it’s burning his skin. 

“I did it, okay?” he mutters, flinching at the bitterness of his own voice. “It’s over.” 

_Maybe we could hang out together again sometime._

Jon’s face appears before Theon’s eyes again, soft and hopeful, and suddenly it’s too much, the thought of seeing him again, knowing it can’t happen, knowing he’s off limits… and what if Catelyn hears of it, what if she thinks Theon is breaking his word? If she told his father… Theon shivers at the thought. He should’ve said no. Should’ve told Jon to stay away from him for a while. 

Loud laughter filters from the living room into the garden and Theon straightens, watching the blurred figures moving behind the patio door. The party is still on it seems, there are still enough people – from the darkness of the garden Theon can hear a sound, the telltale creaking that indicates the shed door opening. Jon is coming back. For just a moment Theon wants nothing more than race to meet him, take everything back, kiss those sweet, soft lips again, just once – he turns around, almost tripping over the steps in his haste to get into the house. 

“Greyjoy!” someone hollers as soon as he’s inside. “Where the fuck have you been? Hiding away at your own party?” 

“Shut up, Torr.” Theon pulls his face into a broad grin, hoping with all his might it conceals the panic rising in his chest. “What do you think I did?” He winks, his guts clenching into a tight knot. “Had a spot of fun out there, of course.”

All eyes are on Theon now, even Robb surfaces from Rhae’s embrace, staring at Theon questioningly.

“Typical,” Cley says good-naturedly. “Can’t have a party without Greyjoy slinking off for some extra fun, can we?” 

“That’s right.” Theon smirks so wide his face hurts. “And you all know how those virgins are, one kiss and they drop their panties for me.”

For a moment it’s silent, then Loras groans. “You didn’t!” 

Theon laughs, his gaze flitting over to Robb before he turns to Loras.

“What, Tyrell, jealous I’ve gotten there before you? You should’ve tried while you had the chance, now he’s already broken in.” 

Behind Theon the patio door slides open with a soft sound, and for a fraction of a moment Theon’s smile falters before he smiles even wider. 

“If you’re not too good for leftovers, I suggest you just go for it. Easiest slut I ever had, down on all fours and gagging for my cock before I could even get it out.” 

The words taste foul in Theon’s mouth and with two hasty steps he’s over at the punch bowl, greedily downing a cup full, then another. 

“That goes for all of you,” he drawls loudly. “If you want a nice, willing hole to empty your balls in, I suggest you just give Snow a little kiss and he’ll promptly jump on your cock.” 

Loud guffawing and whistling almost drowns out the small cry in Theon’s back, the hasty footsteps trampling up the stairs. Theon’s ears are ringing, bile rising in his throat. He downs another cup of punch, grin frozen on his face as he turns back to face the room, the laughing faces, some rolling their eyes… Robb, staring at Theon in utter shock… and suddenly Robb’s face starts to blur before Theon’s eyes, a different face taking its place, lips pulled back over sharp teeth, blue eyes burning with a cold, hateful fire. 

_I’ll get you, you little fucker, wherever you hide,_ Euron’s voice snarls in Theon’s head.

Theon flees. 

***

_Now (Theon)_

Theon blinks, peeling his face off of the damp pillow plastered to his cheek before he checks his phone. Almost eight pm, and still no sign of Jon. Around this time he’s usually here, cooking his boring dinner. The thought of food makes Theon’s stomach growl, and with a sigh he scrambles to his feet, stretching his limbs. Goddamn that fucking couch! He should just set it on fire or something, then they’d have to get a new one, a comfortable one this time. And until the new couch is delivered, they’d have to share the bed… 

Shaking his head at himself Theon stalks over to the fridge, studying its contents without really seeing them. Would Jon still sleep naked if they were sharing? The thought of him, warm and naked, eyes hooded – Theon shivers, closing the fridge door with a sigh. He doesn’t feel like cooking something at all, too much effort, so he opens one of the cupboards, grabbing a box of Lucky Charms. Yes, that’s what he needs now. Sugary, trashy comfort food. Theon gathers a bowl and spoon, returning to the fridge for milk before he opens the box of Lucky Charms, pouring some into the bowl. Theon frowns, leaning closer. What the– 

There are no marshmallows. Theon’s frown deepens as he peers into the open box before pouring the rest of its content into the bowl. What the everloving fuck? There’s not a single sugary treat, not one! Probably a faulty package, Theon muses, transferring the boring cereals into the bin. Oh well, he’s got more than enough back-up. Confidently, Theon opens another box – only to find the same! Cereals, plain, stupid cereals! No pink hearts, no blue moons, no rainbows! Nothing! _I’m going to write them a fucking nasty review,_ Theon thinks grumpily as he grabs another box, his fingers touching something unfamiliar at the bottom – Theon freezes. Slowly, he turns the box upside down, staring in disbelief at the stripe of tape covering the bottom as the truth dawns on him. 

_You goddamn fucking bastard._

Suddenly coming back to life Theon rips all cupboards open, frantically tearing into every box, dumping load after load of plain cereals on the kitchen floor. They’re all the same, every single one, even the emergency ones Theon had stuffed under the sink. Where the _fuck_ are the marshmallows? Theon is panting, cereals crunching beneath his feet everytime he moves. The kitchen is a mess, but right now the only thing Theon can think of is to get his hands around Snow’s bloody neck – the bell rings and Theon’s head snaps up, everything a red haze before his eyes. 

“You little fucker,” he snarls, stomping into the hallway and ripping the door open. 

“I forgot my keys,” Jon says, out of breath, and Theon lunges. 

His fingers claw into Jon’s damp shirt and he drags him inside, stumbling backwards over his own shoes by before he shoves him against the coat rack, yelling right into his face. 

“Where the _fuck_ are they? What have you done with them?” 

Jon’s breath comes quick and shallow, his eyes are wide, his pupils blown, his cheeks glowing red in his heated face. Theon can smell him, fresh sweat and beneath that a hint of arousal, driving Theon mad with want and anger. 

“I ate them,” Jon whispers; he chuckles, licks his lips. “I swallowed every single fucking marshmallow in this pl–”

His mouth tastes sweet, just like back then, and Theon pushes his tongue into Jon’s mouth, his hands losing their grip and sliding into Jon’s hair, damp curls threading through Theon’s fingers. Jon stiffens and Theon doubles his efforts, desperate to take what he can before the inevitable rebuff. He licks into Jon’s mouth, sucks on his lip, crowding close against him, his achingly hard cock dragging over Jon’s – and Jon moans. His hand comes up, fingers tangling in Theon’s hair and suddenly his head is ripped back and Jon is staring at him, panting, his lips red and wet and puffy. 

“Fuck this,” he snarls so of a sudden Theon starts, and then he’s pulled back in, and now Jon is kissing back with equal urgency, devouring Theon’s mouth in a way that makes him see stars. 

Jon starts to move, pushing Theon back and following, not breaking the kiss as they stumble backwards, out of the hallway and into the living room when suddenly Theon’s legs are gone beneath him and he lands on his back, the couch cushions absorbing the fall. Jon is over him in a heartbeat, diving back in, kissing the air from Theon’s lungs until he has to break away not to suffocate, but it’s still not enough and Theon buries his face in the crook of Jon’s neck, feverishly licking at the salty skin, the taste of sweat and Jon almost driving him insane. 

Jon’s hands are winding between them, fumbling with Theon’s trousers until his cock is out, brushing against the fabric of Jon’s sweatpants. It feels incredible, too much and nowhere near enough and Theon smothers his moans against Jon’s neck when Jon pulls his own pants down and their cocks slide together, skin against skin, Jon’s fingers wrapping around both of them, stroking, frantic, slippery with precome and he descends on Theon’s mouth, biting down hard on his bottom lip before he sucks at it, licks into Theon’s mouth, his hand tightening around them both and heat shoots through Theon, straight to his cock and he feels his back arching, his scream swallowed by Jon’s mouth as he comes and comes and comes, as Jon growls, his now slippery fingers moving one more time before he follows, stiffening for a moment before he collapses heavily on top of Theon. 

Theon’s heart is beating painfully hard in his chest, the weight of Jon strangely comforting in an entirely unfamiliar way. He doesn’t dare to move, afraid to break the silence, but finally Jon groans, slowly climbing off of Theon and to his feet. Theon sits up, fighting the urge to cover his soft, sticky cock as he waits for Jon to say something, do something, _anything._ Finally Jon sighs, driving his non-sticky hand through his hair. He’s shaking. 

“I need a shower,” Jon mutters, tucking his spent dick back into his pants. “And then I’ll go to bed. Alone, Greyjoy.” 

“And I?” 

“You clean the kitchen.” Jon shrugs. “Other than that I really don’t care.” 

“Snow, you can’t–”

“You see that I can, don’t you?” Jon turns to leave, hesitating. “My head hurts. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

Theon looks after him as Jon stalks off to the bathroom, his mind reeling. Did that really just happen? Did they just – Theon shakes his head, futilely trying to clear it. Sex happened. They’ll talk about it. Maybe about the option of more sex happening. That’s what he wants, isn’t it? He wants him, had wanted Jon for years and years. This is a cause for joy, not a cause for his chest to ache in this strange, disconcerting way. Well, Theon thinks as he puts on a big smile, the only chance to get more sex is to get the fucking kitchen absolutely spotless again. And forget about anything else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay... guys, I have to tell you something. This is still NOT the reason why Jon hates Theon so much... or at least it's only the groundwork laid. But there's so much more that happened... for now Jon is crushed, feeling betrayed, desperate... angry, yes. But the hate comes from the consequences of Theon's actions. Can you guess it? I bet you guys have ideas, please tell me 😬😬😬😬


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Sunday dear guys! 
> 
> I keep falling asleep on the couch while watching x-files, so I'm posting the chapter now as long as I'm somewhat coherent. Mulder and Scully say hi!

_Now (Jon)_

The first thing Jon notices when he wakes up is a feeling of peace, of contentment. Even the sight of the silver ring on his finger fails to make him grimace today, and for a moment Jon lies still, enjoying the calm as long as it lasts. Finally he’s too awake to stay in bed any longer, and of course the moment he sees him on the couch under a heap of blankets the calm is gone, replaced by a restless buzz that makes Jon’s breath come quicker. He escapes into the shower, thoroughly soaping himself up as he lets yesterday’s happenings pass in his mind. 

It had been good. Really fucking good, and Jon’s hand dives down before he can think better of it, wrapping around his half-hard dick. Greyjoy’s cock against his, soft skin and hot come, his desperate moans still ringing in Jon’s ears and making him shiver under the hot water. It’s been too long, Jon thinks, mouth opening in a silent groan as he strokes his length, spreading his legs just enough to be able to reach behind with soapy fingers. Too long since he’d had sex, and even longer since he’d had sex on a regular basis. 

Jon’s fingers circle his hole, applying pressure, the muscle resisting after so long, it’s uncomfortable, the way his wrist is twisted – Jon’s eyes fly open, his hand stops moving on his dick. 

_Am I a fucking idiot?_

Sex. He wants sex. Needs sex, so bad, apparently, that he’s been about to finger himself in the shower. Jon steps back under the stream, quickly rinsing himself off and climbing out of the cabin. He’d always liked sex, with men and women alike. Sex had been the only thing in his life where he’d allowed himself to thoroughly let go, even after the _thing_. Especially after the _thing._ Jon shivers, his dick so hard it starts to ache. He loves everything about it, loves tasting someone so intimately, loves pleasuring his partner in every possible way, loves to be taken hard as well as fucking someone senseless… as long as he’s got a say in what, and when. 

With quick moves Jon towels himself dry, slipping into his bathrobe. Greyjoy hasn’t stirred, still fast asleep on the couch, and Jon walks past him into the – absolutely spotless, thank god – kitchen area. And why the fuck not, Jon thinks as he slips four slices of bread into the toaster. They’re legally married, Greyjoy is a slut who knows nothing _but_ sex… why not get at least something out of the arrangement? Maybe, Jon thinks with a touch of amusement, maybe they can fuck with the windows open in case the hag is lurking outside again, give her another good show. His dick jolts at that, but Jon ignores it as he starts to fry the eggs. 

“Are you not going for your run?” 

Jon doesn’t turn around at Greyjoy’s sleepy voice, sliding the eggs onto two plates just as the toast pops up. He carries everything to the kitchen table, gathering butter and salt and sitting down before he finally looks over at Greyjoy. 

“Breakfast is ready, darling,” Jon says, grinning internally when Greyjoy makes a bemused noise. “Eat your eggs before they’re rubber.” 

Greyjoy trudges over, dubiously peering at his plate as he settles into a chair. 

“Did you do anything nasty with it? I don’t know, tabasco or something?” 

“I would never.” Jon takes a bite of buttered toast dipped in egg yolk, swallowing before he continues. “I’m only violent against marshmallows.” 

The reminder has Greyjoy’s expression darken, and Jon giggles to himself while carefully maintaining a stoic facade. If he riles him up just enough… Unfortunately Greyjoy decides not to comment, instead he quietly eats his eggs and toast. Jon waits for him to be done before he gets to his feet, popping another slice of bread in the toaster. 

“I’ve done some thinking,” he says, his back on Greyjoy as he waits. “About this scam we’re pulling here.” 

“Oh? And to what conclusion did you come?” 

Greyjoy sounds nervous and Jon smirks, taking the hot slice of toast and juggling it in his hands as he turns back to the table, putting it on Greyjoy’s plate before he retrieves a huge jar from one of the cabinets. 

“Arya’s boyfriend makes jam,” Jon explains at Greyjoy’s confused look. “I never eat any, but I thought you might like something sweet. You’re going to need your energy.”

“Are you going to challenge me to a duel?” Greyjoy asks as he butters his toast and smears half the glass of jam on it. “Just so you know, Robb is going to be _my_ second. Fuck, s’good,” he moans, biting into the toast, a dollop of jam sticking to the corner of his mouth and Jon’s dick leaps. Greyjoy swallows, his brows gathering. “What? Why are you staring at me like that?”

“I want to have sex with you,” Jon says. 

Predictably, Greyjoy promptly chokes on his toast upon hearing that. Jon patiently waits until the coughing and spluttering is over. 

“I figured it makes sense,” he continues once Greyjoy has stopped wheezing. “We’re both healthy, young men, there’s obviously some kind of physical attraction between us…” 

Jon wipes his mouth, gathering the empty plates and placing them in the sink, turning on the tap.

“At least then there’s one good thing coming out of this charade. It’ll make the next year until we can get a divorce a lot more bearable, don’t you think? And let’s be honest, we both know that’s the only thing you’re useful for–”

The scraping sound of a chair on the floor is all the warning Jon gets before he’s ripped around, before Greyjoy pushes him against the counter, his hand diving into Jon’s bathrobe and finding him hard and ready. 

“I’ll show you what I’m useful for,” Greyjoy snarls, his hand working Jon’s length as he crowds against him, rubbing himself against Jon, his breath hot on Jon’s face. “I’ll give it to you so good you’ll be _crying_ when it’s over!” 

He speeds his movements, stripping Jon’s cock fast and good, and with a sudden jerk Jon cries out, spilling over Greyjoy’s hand, his chest heaving as he pushes him away, drawing a noise of protest from Greyjoy. He’s still hard, his face a comical mix between arousal and frustration, and Jon involuntarily smiles. 

“Maybe I will. Tears of relief that I’m finally rid of you.” Jon takes a deep breath, turning to wash his hands under the still running tap. “Why don’t you go and take a shower and meet me in bed? I want to suck your cock.” 

For an entire minute there’s an ominous silence hanging between them – then, without another word, Greyjoy turns on his heels and stomps off, and moments later the shower turns on. Jon smiles to himself. Seems like the next year will be a lot more bearable indeed. 

***

_Then, Eight years earlier (Jon)_

The soft knock on the door almost doesn’t register over the words circling in Jon’s mind, loud and shrill, and Jon ignores it. He feels too numb to even lift his head, nevermind talk to someone. Everything is hazy, blurred, Theon’s voice the only clear thing Jon can hear. 

_Easiest slut… gagging for it…_

“Jon? Can I come in?” The door opens and someone slips in, closing it behind them with a sigh. “Oh Jon… I’m so sorry.”

Jon doesn’t move when Rhaenys sits down beside him, wrapping both arms around his stiff form and drawing him close. She doesn’t say anything else, just holds him, when suddenly a shudder goes through Jon’s body. He turns, burying his face in her neck as the tears start, flowing harder, faster, until he’s shaken by his sobs, gasping for air. 

“Hurts,” Jon pants, shivering when Theon’s voice repeats the horrible things in his head, “Rhae, it hurts!” 

“I know, baby,” she says, rocking him gently, stroking his back, her cheek pressed against the top of his head. 

“I’m going to kill him for that,” a different voice says and Jon hiccups, gazing through strands of Rhae’s black hair at his little cousin, plain murder on her face. “I’ll punch him in the face!” 

“Get in line, kid,” Rhaenys says grimly. “Robb is already taking care of that, and then I want to get my turn.” 

Jon sobs again upon hearing that, but it’s half a laugh. Arya comes over, settling on the rug before Jon’s bed, leaning against his legs and clumsily patting his shin. It brings another wave of tears and Jon doesn’t fight them, clinging to his half-sister as he cries about his own stupidity. 

He should’ve known better. He shouldn’t ever have let Theon – of course he would be cruel, of course he’d – no, Jon thinks dizzily, he couldn’t have expected _that._ That’s a new level of vile, even for Greyjoy, saying such things about Jon and – Jon bites his lip as another thought has him flinch. 

“I can’t ever go out again,” he mutters, fresh tears flowing from his burning eyes. “They all think I’m – they believe – I can’t look any of them in the eyes again!” 

“No one believes anything,” a third voice says, and Jon sits up, rubbing his eyes until Sansa comes into view. She slowly comes over, sitting down on Jon’s other side, stroking his back with a shy touch. “As soon as you both were gone, Margy said she didn’t believe one word, and Loras said the same.” Sansa blushes at mentioning Loras’ name. “And then Renly Baratheon came over and he said that Theon is full of bullshit and everyone nodded.”

“See?” Rhae presses a little kiss to Jon’s forehead. “Everyone knows Greyjoy is a fucking liar. No one would ever believe such things about you.” 

Jon doesn’t answer, just sits there huddled between the three girls trying to console him. He knows he should feel better now, relieved, but the ache in his chest is still too heavy to feel anything other than horror, and a sense of betrayal that makes it hard to breathe. And there’s something else, something Jon’s mind reels back to again and again. 

If Greyjoy had wanted it – if Greyjoy had wanted him like that – Jon wouldn’t have said no. 

_Slut._

***

_Now (Jon)_

He takes him down as if he’s starving, Greyjoy’s cock sliding over his tongue and muffling Jon’s moans as Greyjoy’s nails scrape over Jon’s scalp, sending shivers down his back. It’s so bloody perfect, the fingers in his hair, the loud moans above him, the thick weight on his tongue… Jon swallows around the length diving in and out of his mouth, humming in pleasure when it hits the back of his throat. He bobs his head faster, takes him deeper, everything so wet and slippery and _good,_ until Greyjoy cries out, his cock pulsing in Jon’s mouth and filling it with hot, salty come. 

Jon swallows, pulling off with a deep breath and slumping to the side. His own dick is still hard, but he doesn’t have to wait long until Greyjoy’s recovered enough to return the favour. His mouth is hot and wet and it only takes a couple minutes for Jon to spit a warning, but Greyjoy surprises him, swallowing every last drop. Jon keeps his eyes closed, waiting for the shocks running through his body to fade. Greyjoy moves away, but suddenly the mattress dips to both sides of Jon’s head, and when he opens his eyes he finds Greyjoy hovering over him, his face very near. Jon turns his head to the side. 

“This changes nothing between us,” he says firmly. “We’re having sex, that’s it.”

“You–” Greyjoy sits up, and when Jon looks at him he’s sneering. “Of course that’s it. Have you forgotten who you’re talking to? Did you think I was going to come for a cuddle?”

“I don’t know what you were about to do. I don’t care. I just want us to be on the same page.” 

“Consider us on the same page,” Greyjoy says after a pause, his voice dripping with acid. “As if I could ever want anything more from the most boring person in the whole fucking world.”

Jon nods, but somehow he doesn’t feel better at all upon hearing Greyjoy’s affirmation. He tells himself to get a grip. 

This is just about sex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Jon is determined to do what he can to be able to tolerate Theon for the remainder of their marriage... but I foresee complications XD 
> 
> I wanted to ask you something: Yesterday I solved a knot I had in the plotting of this fic and got a good chunk done, but there are more knots and tangles and I fear I'm starting not to see the forest for the trees. I'm really bad at writing into the void without talking about the process etc to anyone, so I wanted to ask if any of you would want to chat with me about this story, give feedback etc. 18+ because E rated :) If one of you has time/wants to please come hit me up on [tumblr](https://owlsinathens.tumblr.com/)


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thursday... and I'm trying very hard not to fall asleep at work. 3 more hours left until I can go home 😩 
> 
> I want to say a BIG thank you to @MymbleHowl for your help with the fic! everything's much clearer now and I might have added a few chapters *cough* 
> 
> Speaking of chapters, they seem to get longer and longer Oo  
> Hope you don't mind :)

_Now (Theon)_

It’s not just about sex. 

And no matter how often Theon repeats it in his head, he just can’t make it come true, that all he wants from Jon is his cock and his mouth. That’s as far as they’ve gone since Jon declared them lovers, or fuck buddies, or whatever, last Friday. Now it’s Tuesday, another whole free week stretching endlessly in front of Theon, and he’s losing his goddamn mind. 

“It makes no sense,” he says, gesticulating with a half-eaten almond croissant. “He’s the most boring person in the whole fucking world! I swear he doesn’t do anything but clean the flat and go running and sit on the couch and stare at the telly or his phone!”

And suck Theon’s cock so good Theon wants nothing but bend Jon over and fuck him until he’s hoarse from screaming… not yet, he tells himself. Take it slow. As far as he knows through the Stark grapevine, Jon has had one long-term relationship so far, with that cursing, freckled redhead girl. There had never been any mention whatsoever of Jon being with a guy, and Theon will be damned if he rushes into this and overwhelms Jon. Not when he wants him so bad he can barely walk straight anymore.

“The heart wants what it wants,” Sansa says into Theon’s musings. “I bet you’re not what he imagined for a partner either.” 

“Yeah, but this isn’t about him.” Theon takes a sip of his cappuccino. “He merrily goes on hating me and fucking me, and I – I can’t–”

He breaks off, swallowing against the tight feeling in his throat, choking him. He can’t help it. It makes no sense, to want Jon like that on top of wanting his body, to want his smile as well as his frowns, his kisses _and_ his cock, Jon’s arms around him after a tumble in the sheets, his–

“You’re in love with him,” Sansa states, her voice gentle, with a hint of amusement beneath. “You’re in love with Jon.” 

“Fuck,” Theon mutters, blinking laboriously until his view is clear again. “I’m a fucking masochist, right? He’d never – he hates me so fucking much. Eight years and he still hates me so much.”

“If something like what happened to Jon would’ve happened to me because of you, I’d hate you too,” Sansa says sharply. “No matter how much time has passed.” 

“What?” Theon leans forward, gripping the edges of the table with both hands. “What the everloving fuck happened to him that justifies such an intense hate? What the _fuck_ did I do?” 

“You can’t be serious. What you said at that party would be reason enough, and then–” 

“I know,” Theon interrupts her. “I _know_ I fucked up there. I know I deserve a fucking punch in the face for that. I’d take it gladly, believe me. Anything would be better than… than this continuous loathing.” Theon sighs. “I tried to apologize as soon as I could dare to go see him. I even wrote him a fucking letter in case he wouldn’t talk to me. What more can I do?” 

“Apologize again, when he can’t escape.” Sansa raises her eyebrows. “I’m sure it’d have more impact in person than a bloody letter. And then… grovel. Crawl on your belly if you need to. Woo him. You used to be good at that, making someone feel like they’re the only thing that matters in the world. But…” Sansa hesitates, biting her lip. “I think the only thing that could ever make him contemplate to really forgive you… you’d have to tell him why. You’d have to tell him why you did it.” 

“No way,” Theon mutters. “Look, it’s bad enough that _you_ know–” 

“Do you think we’d be friends today if I didn’t know? Seven hells, Theon… we were all furious with you for what you did to Jon. You’re still on Arya’s murder list. I understand why you did it _only_ because I know. And Robb knows you well enough to suspect that you did what you did for a reason, however fucked up your behaviour was. Jon knows nothing of your uncle. He only knows that you’re a cruel arsehole who fucked him over for no reason other than a laugh.” 

“I can’t tell him.” Theon wraps his arms around himself. “I wouldn’t have told you either if you hadn’t been there that night.” He sighs. “It’s not his pity that I want.”

“Then you’re going to have to live with the very real possibility that he’ll never forgive you.” Sansa reaches out, plucking Theon’s hand away from his body and squeezing it in hers. “I love you, you know that, right?” She sighs. “It would be so much easier if you two morons would just sit down and talk. You’d be surprised.” 

“There’s no talking with Jon,” Theon mutters, shoulders sagging. “He doesn’t ever talk to me, he just exists in my general vicinity until he feels like sex, and I–”

“You go along with it because you’re in love with him.” Sansa smiles, her nose wrinkling cutely. “You’re in love with your husband, Theon.” 

“Please stop saying that.” Theon shakes his head. “I can’t be, okay? Who the fuck falls in love with someone who hates Lucky Charms? Who falls in love with someone who never does anything, never goes anywhere, just because we kissed that one time some eight fucking years ago?” Theon groans, laying his head in his hands. “I don’t do boring. I’m not – he was out on Saturday, with the guys, he said. He was back by ten. They’ve been playing poker, he said. Poker! He wasn’t even drunk!” 

“Hmmm…” Sansa nibbles at a lemon cake before stuffing the whole thing in her mouth, chewing thoughtfully for what feels like an eternity. Finally she swallows. “I mean, yeah, Jon is a quiet guy, no parties, no clubbing… definitely no alcohol. He likes to be in control of everything.” 

“He didn’t use to be like that,” Theon mutters accusingly. “When we – when I was still living with you guys he was always going along with anything Robb and I came up with. He wasn’t this – this stuck-up and bossy.”

“People change.” Sansa lifts her eyebrows. “I can only give you the same advice once again–”

“Talk to him, blablabla.” Theon rolls his eyes. “I tried. He doesn’t want to talk. Everytime I as much as open my mouth he promptly stuffs it with–”

“Yes, thank you!” Sansa interrupts him, grimacing. “I really don’t need to know that about my cousin. Or you.” 

“And that’s all I get! No talk, no nothing! Not one smile, and the way he looks at me like I’m the worst… like he’s…”

Theon bites the inside of his cheek, flinching at the sharp pain, his eyes watering. Sansa tuts, holding her napkin out to Theon. 

“Here, dry your tears,” she says, “and stop feeling so sorry for yourself. You still have a whole year to convince Jon that you’re not the worst of the worst.”

“I might as well try to convince him to get multiple cock piercings,” Theon grouses, noisily blowing his nose into the napkin before balling it up and throwing it at Sansa. “And I’m _not_ crying,” he says into her squeal. “I never fucking cry.”

***

_Then, Eight years earlier (Theon)_

He barely makes it into his room before the dams break. It’s as if someone is tearing him apart from the inside and Theon slings his arms around himself to stop his body from falling apart. The thought of Jon having to listen to those vile things, the way Theon imagines his face must’ve looked like, his sweet, hopeful heart shattering in his chest… Theon gasps, sinking down on the edge of his bed, burying his face in his hands. His chest hurts to the point he can’t breathe and Theon groans, furiously berating himself in his head. 

_What the fuck are you doing? There’s got to be another way, we have to figure something out, we can – go to him. Tell him you’re the biggest fucking piece of shit, throw yourself at his feet, beg him to forgive you–_

No. He’s just drunk, drunk and panicked, Theon tells himself. It’s done, over, and after this Jon won’t come near him again and he won’t have to live with seeing him and not being able to have him, he won’t see him at all – another wave of pain makes Theon tilt forward, it gets too much, he can’t… he needs to go to him, tell him he’s sorry, tell _everyone_ he’s full of shit and not to believe what he said, set it right… the sudden surge of searing regret brings Theon to his feet, his hand on the door handle when suddenly it’s gone and he has to jump back to not get hit by the door.

“You fucking arsehole!”

Theon reels back, but Robb’s hands are already fisted in his shirt, dragging Theon close as he yells into his face. His cheeks are still red, he reeks of booze, but his eyes are sober and clear, and dark with anger. 

“How _dare_ you talk like this about Jon?! How dare you doing this to him after–” 

“Let go of me! I need to go to him, I need–” Theon tries to move away, but Robb’s grip only tightens. “Let me–”

“No! You fucking stay away from Jon!!!”

Robb’s hands are shaking Theon so hard everything starts to blur, and all of a sudden the fight leaves him. 

“You _fucking–”_

Robb breaks off when Theon goes limp in his grip; he shoves him away, watching in confusion as Theon stumbles back onto the bed. 

“You’re – Theon, you’re crying.” Robb sounds bewildered, all anger gone for the moment. “But… you never cry!” 

“I’m a piece of shit.” Theon looks up at Robb, blurry through the veil of those goddamn tears. “I didn’t mean it, nothing of it, I only wanted him to stay away, I only wanted him – want him… Robb, I want him so much!” 

_You can’t, or you’re dead. You’re dead, you’re dead, you’re dead, you’re dead!_

Theon repeats it like a mantra in his head as he cries his fucking eyes out, as Robb slowly sits down beside him, an arm’s length away, still looking shocked at the outburst. 

“I don’t understand a single word you’re saying,” Robb finally mutters when the sobs have quieted down. “You two looked so – how _could_ you, Theon? How could you say such horrible things about Jon?” 

Theon hiccups, furiously rubbing his eyes. “She said she’d tell my dad,” he mutters hoarsely. “If I don’t stay away from Jon. If I don’t – he wanted to hang out, Robb! I can’t – I wouldn’t make it, okay? I would just – and she’d find out, and tell my dad, he would cut me off, he’d fucking disown me! He’d send – and I can’t – fuck, I’m _scared_ , okay?” 

“Could you try telling me that from the start?” Robb sighs. “You’re not making any sense.” 

Theon takes a deep breath. Robb sounds calmer now, but he knows him. He’s still angry as all fuck, rightfully so, and maybe it would be good to tell him… some of it. So Theon does. He tells Robb about Cat’s ultimatum, his own doubts, the way he’d felt when he’d kissed Jon, the hope on Jon’s face, the absolute certainty of how bad it would be if Catelyn made good on her word and told Theon’s father about his ways. He tells him of the bone-crushing pain, the regret, the shame, the feeling of being the biggest fucking arsehole ever. Finally Theon stops, shaking all over. It’s silent for a long time. 

“I see,” Robb says at length. “Sorry, Theon, but that’s the most selfish thing I ever heard. And the stupidest. You clearly have feelings for Jon… how can you hurt him like this, and yourself, just for the sake of getting money from your father? I mean, it would be difficult, sure, but you could get yourself a job, no? Earn your own money, get a smaller flat… wouldn’t that be better than this whole mess?” 

Theon shakes his head. “You don’t understand. Father is – he’d – you don’t understand.” He smiles, a weak, bitter smile. “Go ahead, punch me in the face. I deserve it.”

How could he explain it to Robb? What had happened before he left the islands, the horror Father could unleash on Theon if… it’s impossible. He can’t tell Robb without telling him about Euron. And Theon could never tell him about Euron. 

“You’re right, I don’t understand.” Robb takes a deep breath. “But I won’t hit you. It wouldn’t make Jon unhear what you said.” 

“I’ll tell him. As soon as Catelyn’s time limit is up I’ll go to him. Apologize. Tell him.” Theon sniffs, dragging his sleeve over his face. “Until then it’s better he hates me. Better he doesn’t come near me.”

“If you say so.” Robb still looks dubious, but finally he sighs. “Look. I know you, Theon. You’re my best friend, I know there’s something you’re not telling me. You’re an idiot, but I can’t wrap my head around you being so cruel without a reason. At least I hope you wouldn’t be. I just – I think you’re hurting yourself as much as Jon.” 

“I deserve it.” 

“Yeah, probably. As you deserve the punch Jon will deal you, if you’re really going to apologize to him after two fucking years. I certainly won’t hold him back.” Robb hesitantly rubs Theon’s back before he gets to his feet. “I’ll go check on Jon. Rhae is with him, but I want to see if he needs anything. And, Theon?”

Theon looks up. Robb’s face is a strange mix between pity and disappointment, with still a lot of anger beneath. 

“If I have to choose between hanging out with you or Jon, it’s going to be him.” 

“No choice necessary. Of course you’re there for Jon.” Theon hesitates. “Thanks for listening, man. Sorry I’m dragging you into this shit.” 

“You’re still my best friend.” Robb frowns, but then his face softens. “I love you, even though I don’t like you very much right now.”

“Makes two of us,” Theon mutters, but Robb is already gone. 

***

_Now (Theon)_

“Can I have another croissant?” Theon asks the waitress as she comes to collect their empty plates. “Pistachio, please.”

“Another one?” Sansa asks, her eyes wide. “Theon, that’s your third.” 

“And a blueberry muffin and a chocolate milkshake. Oh, and an apple and a banana, please.” Theon waits until the waitress has jutted down his order before he turns back to Sansa. “I need something sweet. I only get toast and eggs for breakfast since he mutilated my Lucky Charms.”

“Buy new ones?” Sansa seems unimpressed. 

“He said if he ever sees another box in his flat he’s going to stuff them where I don’t want them.” Theon grimaces at the thought. “He said if I want some I have to eat them elsewh–” 

Theon breaks off with a yelp when something hard smacks on his shoulder, turning around to find Wex grinning down at him. 

_You’re so whipped,_ he signs before waving at Sansa and sitting down on an empty chair. _What’s for breakfast?_

“Fruit,” Theon says, chuckling at Wex’ horrified expression. “Don’t look at me like that, kiddo. You can’t just eat trash.”

“Says Mister Lucky Charms,” Sansa mutters, rolling her eyes before she smiles at Wex. “Hey, Wex! Good to see you, you’ve grown again.”

Theon grins to himself when Wex’s face takes on a deep maroon colour. The kid is completely smitten with Sansa, barely able to look her in the eyes. The waitress brings Theon’s order and Wex eyes the apple with disdain. 

“Theon’s right, fruit is good for you. I love apples,” Sansa says, causing Wex to hastily take a bite of the apple, grinning in her vague direction. 

_It’s very good,_ he signs, and Theon laughs. Wex’d declare arsenic the best thing ever if Sansa told him she liked it. 

“And what are you guys up to today?” 

“I thought we could have a look at that new mall, you know, the one that opened a couple weeks ago?” Theon bites into his croissant, already opening his mouth to continue talking before he thinks better of it and swallows the bite down. “They seem to have some interesting stores. One of them is called _The Dark Forest_ , that should be right up our alley. Gaming and film merchandise.” 

“Maybe you can stop by some clothes store and get Wex a couple new trousers and shirts. He’s growing out of everything at lightning speed.” 

_Clothes shopping?_ Wex swallows the last bite of the blueberry muffin, making a face. _Last week we went past a shop window with stuff for fancy guys and all Theon talked about for the next half hour was how preeetty Jon would look in a red shirt._

“Did not, don’t slander me here, kiddo!” Theon kicks Wex under the table before turning to Sansa, who’s watching them curiously. “Did you get that?”

“Something about a red shirt and Jon, and you talking too much,” she states dryly, winking at Wex, who promptly blushes up to his ears again. 

“It’s nothing. There’s this fabulous haberdasher on main street and I might have said, _once_ , not continuously for half an hour,” Theon pointedly glares at Wex, “that Jon would look good in red.”

“A little colour in his wardrobe wouldn’t hurt him, true.” Sansa leans back, crossing her legs as her face takes on a thoughtful expression. “Why don’t you get him some while you’re at it? A few new shirts, maybe.”

Oh. _Oh!_

Theon sits upright, beaming at her.

“That’s it! You’re a genius, Sans. I’ll throw out all his boring black stuff and replace it with colour! He’s so going to hate it.”

“I thought the ultimate goal was to make Jon hate you less, not more.”

“Not until I haven’t got back at him for the Lucky Charms. Oh, this is good!” Theon grins. “I’ll start the anti-Theon-hate campaign after. First I want to make him bleed!” 

“This,” Sansa says to Wex, gesticulating at Theon, “is _not_ what a normal marriage looks like, just so you know.”

_Yeah, but when does Theon ever do anything normal?_

Wex grins, ducking when Theon throws the banana peel at him – hitting the waitress in the back just as she walks past. 

“Oh God,” Sansa mutters as Theon apologizes profusely. “I better come with you – if that’s okay with you?” she asks Wex. “I need to see that he doesn’t go overboard and Jon still has something wearable at the end of the day.”

Wex blushes, and nods. 

Three hours later, after dropping Wex off home, Theon is absolutely exhausted. It feels like they’ve raided every single store in the fucking mall, and now he’s laden with bags and bags of new clothes for Jon. He waits for Sansa to check if the coast is clear, and thankfully Jon isn’t home. Probably running again, Theon muses, or blearily staring at a wall somewhere. All the better, it gives them time to stuff all of Jon’s old clothes into two huge black bin liners, until finally all drawers and the cupboard are completely free of anything black – except the wedding suit, and the underwear. Black pants look good on Jon. 

“What do we do with this?” Sansa asks, eyeing the stuffed bags. 

“We chuck them in one of those clothing collection bins.” Theon shrugs, starting to fill the drawers with the new stuff. “I bet someone can use it.” 

“And what if there’s anything sentimental?” Sansa fishes a black turtleneck jumper from one of the bags. “I don’t know, maybe this is the jumper he wore on his first date with Ygritte or something like that.”

“Fucking hell,” Theon mutters. “Alright, I’ll help you carry them back to yours and we’ll ask Catelyn if she can store them in the attic. What the fuck is _this?_ ” 

He drags a plastic bag out from the very back of the last drawer, unearthing a faded band tee he vaguely remembers being Jon’s favourite, all those years ago. Theon unfolds it, noticing a large tear in it, and some suspicious looking dark stains. 

“I think this one we can throw right in the tra–”

“Put that back. _Right now._ ” 

Sansa sounds panicked, and Theon throws her a bewildered gaze as he puts the ruined tee back into the bag, stuffing it where he found it. 

“I guess you’re not going to tell me what this is about,” he says into the uncomfortable silence. Sansa just shakes her head, her face still pale, and Theon sighs. “Looks like we’re done here. Let’s go before Jon is back.”

“I can manage on my own. It really isn’t that much.” Sansa half-smiles, lifting both bags. “I wouldn’t want you to miss out on Jon’s reaction when he comes home and finds his new wardrobe.” 

“Will you pray for me?” Theon grins, a little lopsided. “I’m going to need all the help I can get.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? Questions? New theories? How will Jon react to the new clothes? Will Theon survive the aftermath? ^^


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Sunday dear people! Hope you had/are having a good weekend! Yesterday I visited Vienna Central Cemetery - it's huge, with lovely woods and trails, you can wander around for hours and not have seen anywhere near everything. Today I'm mostly knackered though! 
> 
> Alright, here's Jon - who is thoroughly done with his situation lol

_Now (Jon)_

Raspberry… or tangerine? Jon grumpily scans the shelf in front of him, zooming in on a fancy looking glass of jam. He takes it out, reading the label with a frown. Dragon fruit. Huh. Seems you can make preserves from absolutely everything these days. Jon curses inwardly, the fact that Arya and Gendry had to go away on holiday just when he needs more jam, Greyjoy for needing something sweet for breakfast to even function – and himself, for being enough of a soft-hearted idiot to indulge him. Jon sighs, deciding to play it safe and go with Raspberry. He knows Greyjoy likes that one, it had been his favourite back when they’d been living together at the Starks’. 

Jon trudges on, deliberately ignoring the cereal aisle, and the queasiness in his stomach when he sees a leprechaun from the corner of his eyes. The rest of the groceries he needs land in his basket, and at last Jon turns into the personal hygiene aisle to stock up on his shampoo and a few other essentials. Finally at the register Jon places everything on the belt – and blinks in confusion at the tub of hair-styling wax among his items. Huh. For a moment, Jon contemplates handing it to the cashier to have it taken back, but then he shrugs. Greyjoy’s wax is almost empty and it won’t kill Jon to do this. Not when he’s buying jam for his _husband_ anyway. 

Jon pays, stuffing everything in a reusable bag before he walks out. The bag is heavy, and Jon shifts it on his shoulder as he idly looks in the windows of the shops he passes. A grumpy, sour-faced man is looking back, and it takes Jon a moment before he realizes he’s looking at his reflection. Jon stops dead, trying to pull his features into a friendlier expression, but after a second his brows gather again, his mouth turns down – inside the shop a young woman turns to the window, flinching at the sight of a frowning stranger on the other side of the glass, and Jon has had it. 

Instead of going straight back home, he leaves the mall and heads towards a small cafe he remembers from a brunch he once had there with Rhaenys. The waiter is there before Jon has sat down at one of the tables outside, taking his order for coffee and a cucumber sandwich before disappearing into the building. Jon arranges his bag to his feet, stretching his legs under the table. It’s a beautiful day, the sun is shining, people are buzzing around, laughing and doing their stuff – and he goes around looking like an angry troll. 

“Your order, sir!” 

Jon blinks at the waiter, pushing his phone aside to make room for his coffee and the sandwich, mumbling a thank you. The waiter lingers, straightening the sugar bowl before he gives Jon a quick glance and sighs, finally slinking off. Jon looks after him for a moment, wondering what that was about, but finally he decides he doesn’t care, taking a bite of his sandwich. It tastes like cardboard, the bite growing bigger and bigger in Jon’s mouth, and he grimaces as he washes it down with a sip of coffee. 

This is ridiculous, all of it. He’s sick of the whole situation, so much so that even all the sex he’s been getting recently isn’t enough to make a difference. He’s sick of behaving like this, sick of all the hate and the rage. This isn’t who he is, who he wants to be. Jon shakes his head at himself. He can’t forget what happened. Can’t forgive it, either. But he doesn’t want to go on like this. He wants to have peace, even if it means having to tolerate Greyjoy everywhere in his life, not just when they’re having sex. 

Jon sighs, closing his eyes and holding his face in the sun. The sex… it’s really good, just as he’d known it would be. Greyjoy is very skilled with his hands and his mouth, and his dick is simply perfection. Jon wonders when he’ll finally get it inside of him. He’s aching for it, the feeling of being stretched and filled. It’s been too long. But Greyjoy doesn’t seem to dare going anywhere near Jon’s arse, and while Jon actually appreciates not being pressured into anything, he’s starting to get impatient. Maybe he can initiate something when he comes home later, subtly place the lube right in front of Greyjoy’s nose… 

“Hello, Jon.”

Jon swallows back a startled yelp as his eyes fly open, his gaze landing on Catelyn standing in front of him, and he promptly feels his face heating up, as if she’s caught him doing something naughty. She’s smiling down at him in much the same fashion as always, a little tight-lipped, but it _is_ a smile, so Jon sits up straighter, making an inviting gesture. 

“Hey, Catelyn. I’m having coffee, do you want to join me?” 

It’s nothing but acquired politeness, but to Jon’s horror she actually sits down on the chair opposite of him. Jon stares at her as she orders tea and cake, not knowing what to say. The silence between them quickly starts to get uncomfortable, and finally Jon clears his throat. 

“So, uh… you’ve been shopping?” 

“Yes,” Catelyn says. “I needed new garden shoes, mine are starting to fall apart.” 

Jon nods. After a moment Catelyn’s order arrives and she busies herself with her tea bag and the hot water, leaning back in her chair as she waits for her tea to be ready. Jon feels a trickle of sweat run down his back. 

“Um. Did you find any? New shoes?” 

“Yes, I did.” 

Catelyn doesn’t offer to show Jon the new shoes like Sansa would have, and Jon’s silent desperation grows. Why on earth did she have to actually sit down with him? 

“How are you doing?” Catelyn finally asks, and Jon breathes a sigh of relief – that is, until she continues. “How’s the married life going for you?” 

“Oh. I guess… it’s good?” Jon looks down on his hand, on the silver ring sitting there. “I mean, it does take some getting used to, but yeah, it’s good.” 

He has to be careful. Catelyn hadn’t been involved in any of the planning and conspiring, she doesn’t know it’s nothing but a sham. Of course she’d been invited to the wedding, but Jon doesn’t remember seeing her there. 

“It’s very pretty. Suits you.” Catelyn’s gaze is trained on the ring as well. “Ned and I had platinum rings too, did you know?” 

She spreads her long, elegant fingers, but Jon can hardly look at her dainty silver wedding ring – no, not silver – platinum? He swallows, gaze drawn by his own ring… _fucking platinum??_ Jon balls his hand into a fist, hiding it under the table. This makes no sense whatsoever. Why would Greyjoy buy them _platinum_ rings for a fake marriage with a sell-by date? 

“I have to say, I’m impressed with Theon,” Catelyn says, ripping Jon out of his haywire thoughts. “I had no idea he was so serious about you.”

“Yeah… miracles do happen, it seems,” Jon mutters, still thoroughly confused. “He’s – it was a surprise when he – when he proposed.” 

“I can imagine.” Catelyn smiles briefly, stirring sugar into her tea. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure?” 

“After his farewell party, what, seven years ago?” 

“Eight,” Jon mumbles, his stomach jolting. “Eight years ago.” 

“Right.” Catelyn takes a sip of her tea, eyeing Jon over the rim of her cup. “Did he really not try to pursue you afterwards? I would never have thought he’d listen to me.” 

“Listen to you?” Jon stares at her, not comprehending a single word she’s saying. “He didn’t pursue me, no. I don’t think we talked a single time until – well, he was at the party for my eighteenth birthday, but–” 

“Interesting. The boy must have been more afraid of his father than I thought possible.” 

“I don’t understand,” Jon says, a little too forceful. “What’s with G– with Theon’s dad?” 

“Oh?” Catelyn raises her eyebrows. “I would’ve thought he’d have told you. About the little chat I had with him at that party, after I saw you two together. I just told him to keep his hands to himself as long as you’re not of age, or I’d have a talk with his father. I didn’t want him to string you along, Jon. You were only sixteen and Theon… well, you know him. I thought he was toying with you, nothing serious.” She smiles, and this time the smile reaches her eyes. “I’m happy to see I was wrong. He must really love you, to have waited for you for all these years.” 

“I…” 

Jon swallows, his mind reeling. He watches as Catelyn drinks the last sip of tea, pulling a note out of her purse and placing it on the table, next to her untouched cake. 

“It was nice meeting you, Jon,” she says as she gets to her feet. “Say hello to your husband from me, will you? Maybe you two could come around for lunch sometime.” 

She gathers her shopping bags, and with a brief wave she’s gone. Jon stares at the cake without seeing it. This… is that what it was? What made Greyjoy do what he did? If Catelyn threatened him with telling his father… aye, it explains why Theon would break up whatever it was they had… but it doesn’t explain the rest. It doesn’t explain the cruelty, the horrible things Greyjoy said. Had it really just been a means to get Jon to stay away until he’s eighteen?

***

_Then, Six years ago (Jon)_

“Finally! Arya said you’re coming, but I started to think you’re going to bail on me, you… you…” 

Jon completely loses his train of thought when he sees who’s standing behind Robb in the open door. Greyjoy isn’t looking at him, his gaze firmly trained on a gift bag he’s carrying, and bile starts to rise hotly in Jon’s throat. He clenches his hands into fists as he tears his gaze away, looking to Robb, who looks back with a sheepish grin. 

“Happy birthday, Jon,” he says, enveloping Jon in a rib-crushing hug. “I’m so sorry,” he whispers in Jon’s ear. “He insisted on coming. Punch ahead, but please don’t murder him on your eighteenth birthday, okay? You’d be tried as an adult.” 

Jon snorts, worming out of Robb’s embrace and taking a step back. 

“See that he stays out of my sight or I can’t guarantee anything,” he says, not even trying to lower his voice as he steps aside to let them in. 

It’s not the biggest birthday party ever, but Jon enjoys it nonetheless. It had been the idea of his new flatmates, Pyp, Grenn and Sam. Jon had found the ad for a spare room in a flat share in Catelyn’s morning papers, and to his surprise she had agreed to not only come with him to his interview, she had also paid the deposit. Probably so she can turn his room into a walk-in closet, Jon suspects, but he’s not even mad about it. It had only taken a few weeks before his flatmates had warmed to him and after half a year it’s as if they’ve known each other forever. The only bad thing is that the landlord seems to dislike Jon for some reason, always finding faults with the way he parks his bike or separates the trash. 

But apart from Mr. Thorne, Jon loves it here. He’d never had friends of his own before, only ever hanging out with his cousins and half-siblings and by proxy their friends, and, well. Greyjoy. Who thankfully seems to have taken Jon’s words to heart; mostly he’s staying out of his way, keeping to Robb’s side. Jon ignores him as best he can, chatting with his flatmates and the people they invited. There’s a bunch of really pretty girls, and Jon has been trying to gather the courage to speak to one of them the whole evening. 

Her name is Val, and she’s really pretty with her long, honey-coloured hair and her pale grey eyes. Jon had seen her around a couple of times, but had never dared talking to her. Tonight he wants to change that, see if she might be up for a date sometime, now that he’s eighteen and not a child anymore. He spots her sitting on the sofa together with a girl named Gilly. Sam, one of Jon’s flatmates, has a huge crush on her, but he’s about as successful in his advances as Jon. 

Jon creeps closer, trying to think of a good opener, something witty and clever, something sexy – when suddenly Val lifts her head, looking directly at Jon. He feels heat rising in his cheeks, and then she smiles, a brilliant, dazzling smile, thoroughly shattering Jon’s courage. At least he manages to smile back lopsidedly, before he turns and flees into his room. Which is already occupied. Of fucking course. 

“Hey, Snowbell,” Greyjoy says. “Nice room.”

Jon’s racing heart abruptly splutters and stops, only to start beating again even faster. Greyjoy is sitting crosslegged on Jon’s bed, fiddling with his hands. It’s the first time Jon finds himself alone with him since the _thing_ had happened, and for just a tiny moment the butterflies are back – before the other memories kick in and the butterflies turn to killer hornets in Jon’s stomach, making him nauseous. 

“Get out,” he spits, teeth gritted so hard his jaw hurts. 

_Slut,_ Greyjoy’s voice in his head says, laughing, _just an easy slut._

 _Greyjoy was right,_ another voice says in the back of Jon’s mind. _Just look at him, he’s gagging for it._

Jon shakes his head to get rid of the thought, his stomach lurching again. 

“I was hoping we could talk,” Greyjoy says, stubbornly remaining where he is. “I need to talk to you. It’s really important, okay?” 

“Is something with Robb? Arya?” Jon carefully exhales through his nose, trying to keep the anger coursing through him in check. “Is this about anyone I care about?” 

“It’s about me.” Greyjoy swallows audibly, glancing at Job before quickly looking away again. “About me and you, about that time two years ago, about what we had–”

“Nothing,” Jon whispers, and again, louder. “Nothing. We had _nothing_ , Greyjoy. Seeing you makes me fucking sick!” 

“I guess I deserve that after what I did.” Greyjoy shrugs. “I waited for two fucking years to tell you – I know what I said was–”

“You know nothing, you goddamn fucker,” Jon hisses, tears starting to sting in his eyes. “Fuck off. Fuck off, fuck off, _fuck off!”_

Greyjoy gets to his feet, swaying slightly. He bends down, picking up something from the floor and holding it out to Jon. It’s the gift bag he had with him before.

“Happy birthday, Snowbell,” Greyjoy says, shoving the bag at Jon before almost running from the room. 

Jon swallows, looking down. Inside the bag he can see a huge jar full of gummy bears, a DVD and a thick envelope. Jon takes it out, turning it in his hands. His name is written on the front, in Greyjoy’s flourish handwriting. Jon bites his lip, stuffing the envelope back into the bag. He won’t read it, whatever it is. Apologies, maybe. More insults, probably. He shakes his head. No, he doesn’t want to have anything to do with this. He’ll take it out, throw the whole fucking thing in the trash. 

***

_Now (Jon)_

The money Catelyn had left is enough to cover both of their bills and for a big fat tip, and Jon leaves without waiting for the waiter to show up again. He almost forgets his shopping bag, too confused to think straight. His eighteenth birthday… maybe Greyjoy had wanted to explain about Catelyn and her ultimatum then, and for a moment Jon wishes he would’ve listened to him, would’ve read the letter instead of throwing it out. Maybe then they would’ve been able to achieve some sort of truce, maybe Jon could look at him and see just Greyjoy himself, instead of those other guys…. 

The thought is enough to make chills run down Jon’s spine. It doesn’t matter. Even if the letter had contained an apology… it wouldn’t be enough. Nothing could erase Greyjoy’s words and the consequences from Jon’s mind. Greyjoy would need to have a fucking good explanation, a better one than just being scared of his father. That alone doesn’t justify what he said. Maybe there is something, a reason, something Jon doesn’t know about… he shakes his head as he unlocks the door to the flat. Who is he kidding? In all probability Greyjoy is just what he is – a selfish arsehole. 

“Hey.” 

Jon starts when Greyjoy appears in the hallway, plucking the shopping bag from Jon’s shoulder. He’s smiling, a little nervous, but it still looks sincere, as if he’s happy to see Jon. _He must really love you…_ Jon stares at him, Catelyn’s words ringing in his ears, and for just the tiniest moment it’s as if nothing bad had ever happened, butterflies squirming in Jon’s stomach again… no. The moment passes, and Jon squares his shoulders. He can’t forget anything. But he can try to make their lives – his own life – a lot less bitter, a lot easier. 

Tentatively, Jon smiles back. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so Jon is willing to cooperate, not knowing what surprise is waiting for him in the bedroom amd his dresser 🙈 that can only go down the drain. Next chapter will have his reaction to the clothes, I promise. And so much more!

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed this! And you know me, kudos and comments are my fuel – I absolutely loooove hearing from you, your thoughts or just a hello 😘


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